


Between

by Allie_J



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Buried memories, Dreams, Flashbacks, Ghosts, M/M, Pining, Possession, Shared Consciousness, Steve is in denial (in more ways than one), Trigger Warning for Suicide/Suicidal Ideation, implied Clintasha
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-03-16 12:42:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 75,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3488663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allie_J/pseuds/Allie_J
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier is a ghost.</p><p>Something is haunting Steve not just in his dreams but in his apartment.  Footsteps, voices, shadows - he comes to accept that the presence is Bucky.  One possibility - his best friend is dead.  Another - he was recaptured by Hydra and found a way to separate his consciousness from his body while in cryostasis, meaning that if Steve can find a way to communicate with him directly, Bucky could lead him to his body.</p><p>Sam has a third theory.  That Steve may need some professional help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The night Bucky died, Steve tried to reach out to him.

It didn’t seem possible that he could leave Earth without saying goodbye to him. That there could just be the memory of him falling, screaming, seared into his mind in exploding color, impossible detail. No epilogue.

He listened as he lay on his cot, searching the darkness around him with his consciousness. He listened, but all that came to his ears was an impossible stillness, punctuated by a few early-morning crickets, soldiers speaking so far off that he couldn’t make out the words.

It was selfish. It was inexcusably, disgustingly selfish to hope that Bucky had gone anywhere other than Heaven the moment he’d hit the rocks. That he had somehow lingered for him.

It made his gut cramp with self-hatred, but not enough to make him stop wishing. 

“Here’s my hand, Buck,” he said, raising it open-palmed above his chest. “If you’re here, take it.”

He waited, hoping for anything, even the briefest brush of warm static against his fingertips. Even if Bucky was a ghost, his touch would still be warm.

There was nothing. He waited until his forearm began to ache, and then he lowered his hand slowly.

Bucky was dead. Not just dead – gone.

He was alone.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

He heard footsteps. Careful, deliberate footsteps, like the intruder had no hesitation as he walked toward the foot of his bed.

He was wide awake in an instant, but willed his body not to move. His veins were ice – considering the role he’d played in taking down both the helicarriers and Hydra, he had to be one of their top targets. It was impossible to say how many of their agents were still active, since no one knew how many had existed in the first place.

The second he moved, he would be giving himself away. He stayed stock still, waiting for the moment when he could pre-emptively leap up and overtake him.

The footsteps resumed, walking around the bed and toward the side he left empty. He waited for the cock of a gun, but what he heard and felt instead shocked him. The bed groaned, dipping in toward the empty space next to him.

Whoever it was, they’d sat down.

It was too much. He sucked in a quick breath, rolling toward the weight sitting there and opening his eyes.

No one was there.

He scanned his bedroom, semi-lit by the moonlight coming in at the window. 

Nothing. No one.

What was strange was that relief never came. His muscles were still taut with anticipation, his senses heightened. It still felt as if somewhere were there, silently invading his space.

He took a few semi-deep breaths, trying to calm himself. When that didn’t work –

This is stupid, he thought – 

He reached out, plunging his hand into the empty air where it had felt like someone sat down, where they should be.

He pulled it back. The air there was cold, cold like opening a freezer door on a summer day. It made sense that it would be a little cooler – he was warm in bed, and that side was closer to the window. But the difference was as stark as dipping his hand in ice water.

He paused, bewildered. Then he held out his hand again.

Still cold, very cold. And inexplicably, he thought of Bucky.

An old memory. Bucky across the room, sitting on the edge of his bed. He thought Steve was sleeping, but he wasn’t, he hadn’t all night. He didn’t think Bucky had, either – they’d both spent the night awake and silent, waiting for the next day to come. 

He was holding the cap of his dress uniform in his hands, turning it jerkily, inch by inch, in a circle. His breath was ragged, hard, and he thought for a second that he might cry, but he didn’t. Finally, he looked up, and Steve slipped his eyes closed immediately.

He never saw the look there.

“Bucky,” he whispered, and his voice sounded as defeated as his would’ve been, if he’d woken Steve at that moment and spoken to him, poured out whatever he’d been thinking before heading off to war. Defeated, and a little scared.

It’s gone. Nothing has changed, but he looked around the room and saw only benign shadows. His shoulders relaxed, because he was alone again.

Except he’d been alone the whole time.

He laid back down. He can only stare up at the ceiling, feeling like he should be doing something - chasing what was there so briefly. But there could be nothing to chase, when nothing was there in the first place.

In his mind, he summoned the same argument he has with himself every night, when flashing memories of the Winter Soldier keep him awake. He should sleep, he needs to sleep, because in the morning he needs to have the strength and focus to keep looking. He needs to find him.

It took a long time, but it always came. He fell asleep again.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

“I had a weird dream last night,” Steve offered. Having finally garnered the strength to share whatever it was he’d heard and felt the night before, he slowed his pace marginally. Sam did a remarkably job of keeping up, and part of the challenge for him was keeping pace without Steve needing to make concessions. Having a conversation at that pace, though, was understandably a little too much.

“Yeah?” the other man asked, his voice only slightly breathless.

This was something he was beginning to appreciate about Sam. He had the sense that he could offer to tell him anything, and he would respond with the perfect balance of eagerness and no-pressure casualness every time.

“Yeah,” he went on. “I was sleeping – I mean, I guess in the dream I was sleeping, and then I heard these footsteps come up on my bed, and I felt like someone was watching me. And I thought it could be Hydra, you know, showing up to assassinate me in my sleep –“

“I’m not in this dream, am I?” Sam asked, his sarcasm clear even between pants. Steve gave him a half-grin, but went on.

“But then – this person – they go around my bed and sit down on the side of it, because I can hear the footsteps, and feel the bed sink down,” he continued. “I open my eyes, I’m ready to jump him, but there’s no one there.”

“Okay,” Sam responded, tilting his head a little to the side.

“But it still feels like someone’s there, they’re just – invisible I guess?” he went on. “So I feel dumb about it, but I reach out, and the space where the person should be, it’s ice cold.”

Sam didn’t comment, just narrowed his eyes slightly. It made Steve feel all the more self-conscious, and his dream was beginning to sound weirder and weirder the longer he explained it out loud. He’d gone too far, though, to stop now. That, and he knew that Sam wasn’t the kind of person to judge him for anything, especially his dreams.

“And then for no reason I’m hit with this memory of Bucky,” he admitted. “Before the war, when he thought I was sleeping but I saw him sitting on the edge of his bed, thinking about being shipped off.”

“And then what?” Sam prompted. He seemed intrigued, if not concerned, and it was somewhat of a comfort that if he thought the dream was bizarre, he didn’t let it show on his face.

“And then I said ‘Bucky’ out loud, and it was gone,” he finished. 

“What was gone?”

The question hit him, and he realized that he didn’t know exactly what he meant by ‘it,’ either.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Whatever was there on the bed was just – gone. And I was alone again in my room, like nothing happened.”

Sam took a few moments to absorb this, filling the silence with a few deep breaths that prepared him to speak as they continued to run. 

“I don’t know either, man,” he said, his voice friendly but also a little stern, showing that he was taking the dream seriously. “But if you’re having dreams about the Winter Soldier showing up out of nowhere and then disappearing again – that’s not the most complex metaphor your brain could come up with.”

He nodded, because it did make sense, his search for Bucky bleeding into his subconscious. What was strange was that his dream hadn’t been very dream-like. He remembered all of the details, all the feelings, like they were recent memory.

What he doesn’t tell Sam is that he doesn’t fully believe he was asleep. 

“True,” he admitted, turning his mind back to the present. “I guess it wasn’t all that mysterious of a dream, I just – it just feels good to talk about it sometimes. Let it out. Even the little things.”

“Amen,” Sam said, already adjusting to the quicker, less-talking pace Steve was setting up. He grinned at the strange look given to him by the other man. “I mean – anytime.”

He returned the smile, glad to be returning to their normal routine, eager for when the run would end and they’d find themselves pouring over a dining table covered in papers and files, hopefully one step closer to finding Bucky.

It was easy, to throw himself into the idea of it being natural, explainable, the dream he’d had. To embrace the idea that he’d been dreaming at all.

It was, after all, the only explanation that made sense.


	2. Chapter 2

There is an orange glow behind his eyes. He knows that if he opens them, the bright light will be blinding, but he has to. His left eye is harder to open, sealed shut by something sticky and half-dry that glues his eyelid down. It peels it open little by little; the light does blind him, and he closes his eyes again, letting them twitch open into painful slits until he can see.

The light is artificial, a round lamp above him. It flips a switch in his mind, of memories – the panic is sweeping through his veins even before he tries to move, feels the thick leather of the restraints holding him down, cutting into his skin. Now the panic isn’t panic but dread, a deep stab of hopelessness, and even though he knows it’s pointless he struggles, thrashing his head from side to side –

And that’s when he sees it, the stump of his arm, wet with red, mangled, and he thinks he can see a shard of bone beneath the scraps of skin and muscle that are left. He twitches his shoulder and it jerks, and the pain runs down his spine, clenches his gut, makes him want to vomit, and suddenly he can hear himself screaming, one long sound, like wind, like the wind around him as he fell –

He is screaming and screaming, but the footsteps that approach him are calm. A face appears above him, anonymous, covered by a surgical mask. He can see the needle briefly before it feels it slide into his neck, feels the pressure of the injection, and then he is falling again, falling, the wind blowing out his ears –

Steve woke up.

He tried to catch his breath, sucking in huge mouthfuls of air as his hand clenched at his chest. A nightmare, a horrible nightmare – he could still feel himself falling, feel his ears ache, and for some reason, his shoulder. 

He looked around the room, orienting himself, bringing himself back to reality. It was morning, but barely, the light filtering through his curtains just barely tinged with pink and gold.

No point in going back to sleep.

He stretched his arms as he sat up, slowly heaving his legs over the side of the bed and onto the floor. That was when he saw it.

The picture frame was face down.

He reached out, picking it up and carefully righting it again. It was a still taken from the reel the Smithsonian looped of him and Bucky, both laughing. He looked carefree in it, impossibly free and happy.

He could’ve filled the apartment with pictures of Bucky. He could’ve drawn him from memory, filled in the thousand holes the few photos from the exhibit left in its attempt to portray the man Bucky was. He could’ve easily done that, but before realizing that he was alive, he didn’t think he could bear a daily reminder that his best friend was dead. It was too fresh.

Now, the picture gave him hope that the man Bucky had been could still be salvaged.

He must’ve knocked it over tossing and turning in the middle of the nightmare. 

He sighed. The picture never failed to hit him like a stab in the chest, even though he saw it every day. He let his eyes linger on Bucky’s smile for a moment, then headed for the shower.

The hot water felt good, soothing his nerves where the nightmare still left them ragged, relaxing the tight muscles of his shoulder and dulling the ache. He closed his eyes, losing himself in it – and then shivered.

The water was still steaming hot, but the air in the bathroom was cold, then colder. The contrast made goosebumps pop up on his forearms, made him cross his arms and huddle under the hot spray.

It didn’t make sense. The bathroom always trapped the heat, to the point that it was almost sweltering when he was done with his shower.

He had that feeling again. That feeling of being watched, of not being alone. He half expected the bathroom door to creak open, for the shower door to be yanked across and a gun cocked to his head.

But there was nothing. Just the cold.

He slowly opened the shower door, letting out a huff of breath as even more frigid air rushed in. He wanted to snatch a towel, cover himself – he was suddenly very aware of his nakedness, soaking wet and freezing.

It was an absurd thought, because he was alone. He was staring at an empty bathroom filled with steam, shivering.

He narrowed his eyes. It was impossible, but for a moment, he thought he saw the cloud of steam part around a shape – broad shoulders, an indistinct head. But just as he saw it, more steam rushed it, obscuring it, and there was nothing again.

The anxiety that gripped him in the shower was now edging on panic, and he grabbed a towel, throwing it around his middle even though he hadn’t done anything yet to clean himself. He steeled himself, plowing through the chill and back out into his bedroom, which was inexplicably warmer.

He breathed out a sigh of relief. Free of the bathroom, his tension slipped away almost as quickly as it had come. He began to quickly towel off his chest and legs, aware of the water dripping off him in heavy beads onto the carpet.

When he finished his calves, he glanced up, and that was when he saw it again.

The picture frame was face down.

He stared at it. He could remember how, just minutes ago, he had set it carefully upright on the nightstand.

But he must’ve set back it without propping the stand out far enough, he thought. And then it must’ve fallen in on itself.

He walked over, picking it up again. Bucky’s face shone out at him, the same as before, unchanged. He set it up again, carefully, adjusting it this way and that to make sure it was stable.

He let out a long breath. He felt a sudden urge to get out, talk to someone. Shake off the sense of anxiety that still clung to him.

He picked his phone up off the nightstand.

‘Coffee?,’ he texted, knowing she was probably awake.

‘Sure.’

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

Nat was quiet as she sipped her expresso, lifting her eyes from the cup only briefly. It was something about her that was growing on him – that there was never any pretense, any need to try and start a normal conversation. It could be awkward, though, when you had something to say and didn’t know how to start.

“You and your caffe Americano,” she said, glancing at his own cup in distain. He frowned down at it.

“I believe when you’re in America, it’s just called ‘coffee,” he said drying. “Or black coffee, if you want to get particular about it.”

“No excuses,” she said lowly. “You have options, now, Steve.”

“Fancier coffee options?” he questioned. “God only knows.”

A ‘peppermint mocha frappuccino’ had been one of the easiest items to cross off his list, but he hadn’t realized how much more complicated even that long, three word name could become. Did he want soy? Whipped cream? And the sizes were in Italian – not a problem because he knew Italian, but confusing none the less.

“Better coffee options,” she corrected. She finally met his eyes, setting her little cup off to the side. “Okay. I think we both know that you didn’t text me at dawn because we’re friends now and this is what friends do.”

Well, sort of, he thought, but didn’t push the issue. He sighed, setting aside his own cup too, so that he could wring his hands together.

“I just needed to get out of my apartment,” he said. “It was starting to feel – suffocating.”

She nodded, leaning toward him a little, lowering her voice.

“You can’t expect to find him overnight,” she said. Her eyes were intent with real concern, and that made his heart clench with appreciation. “You’ve been eating and sleeping this. If you never give yourself time to breathe, you’ll go crazy.”

“I know,” he said, wondering immediately if he did know. He stopped for meals, he kept up the morning run with Sam because it kept him sane. He slept – but maybe it was still too much.

Nat gave him a hard look, probably thinking the same thing he was, reading the doubts clearly on his face. He wrung his hands a little harder.

“I’m trying,” he said. “And I’ve been fine, it was just this morning – I had a nightmare, and then I just felt – paranoid? Like someone was watching me. And I just had to get out.”

“Like someone was watching you?” she questioned, perking up at this. “Steve, you realize that –“

“I mean, from inside my apartment,” he insisted. From inside my bathroom, he held back. He didn’t think even Nat would make a case for the Winter Soldier sneaking into his apartment just to stare at him in the shower and disappear again. “No one was there. It was just – this weird – feeling.”

“Okay,” she said, frowning. She picked up her cup again, finishing it off. “Maybe I could come over for a few hours. Help you go over the file again.”

She might as well have said ‘maybe you didn’t check the closets well enough,’ but he nodded, not about to press the issue. It came from a good place.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

Nat cocked her gun softly outside of the apartment door, lowering it nonchalantly to her side. When she saw his look, she raised her eyebrows dismissively. 

“Just in case,” she said. “It’s not as if he doesn’t know where you live.”

That was true enough, he thought. It was the reason he still made sure to sleep here, night after night.

They rounded the corner into his kitchen. It looked normal, still. Except that one drawer was pulled open.

Nat approached it first, peering inside it. He watched the arm holding the gun stiffen, and she raised it fluidly as she continued into the dining room. He followed her path, looking down into the drawer himself.

Knives.

He slid it shut, feeling a chill run down his spine. There was no time to think – he had to follow in Nat’s shadow, back her up. Still, as they passed through the kitchen, he noticed that the time display on his oven was flashing, blank.

And on the microwave, and the coffee machine –

Then he saw the dining room.

All of the paperwork he’d collected, all the files connected to the original file – all of them were scattered across the floor, hanging off the tucked-in dining room chairs, as if they’d been blown away from the center of the table. There was only one thing left – a photograph.

He approached it, picked it up gently between two fingers. It was the old photo of Bucky in cryo-sleep, blurred but unmistakable.

“Do you think this is a message?” he asked hollowly. He hated that photo – it taunted him. It made him feel like he was inches from Bucky, like all he had to do was reach out into the photo to save him.

“From him?” Nat questioned. Her gun was still raised – she was waiting for him to check the rest of the house. Finding this, though, so plainly left for him, made it less likely that anyone would be lying in wait in another room. “Probably. It could be from someone else, showing they know what you’re trying to do, but – probably.”

He rubbed his thumb over the photo, over Bucky’s clenched jaw. 

If he had been here, it meant he was close. It was good news. He should’ve felt something good in his chest – new a renewed sense of hope, determination.

Instead, he felt hollow with doubt. He wondered if the Winter Soldier was still here, but not hiding – not in a way that could be flushed out. If he had been here, somehow, for days.

He couldn’t stop searching. He would reorganize the papers, find something he’d overlooked. He’d wait for another message.


	3. Chapter 3

He sees a hand reach out, slipping a key into a brass doorknob. There is a light on in the hallway, but it’s faraway and dim; still, he can just make out the scratches in the wood that make it look old and uncared for, repainted brown years ago and then forgotten.

The door opens into a room that’s even darker, but he knows his away around it; he pulls off his jacket and hangs it without looking for the hook. The room is tiny, seeped in shadow stretching from a small, single window next to a radiator.

The brightest object in the room is the whitest – the linen shirt on a man, hunched over a table. He approaches him, making sure his footsteps are quiet – and he can see now that the man is sleeping, head resting on his forearms, and underneath that is an unfinished sketch, the charcoal lines blurring onto his skin.

It’s him, it’s Steve – and as he thinks it another voice thinks it too, his name, but solemnly, like a name from the Bible – Steve – he sees himself in his old body, and the room is their apartment, and his breathing is even, slow, as he watches himself sleep.

Steve, the voice says again, but not out loud, and he is regretting working late, because this always happens, but he has to, wants to, it’s a little more money in their pocket, it’s just that when he comes home and Steve is already –

But it doesn’t matter, because it’s the way things have to be, and at least for now, if Steve is asleep, he can –

He watches his hand reach out, the fingers parting as they brush through his blond hair. The hand is strong, with a wide palm.

Don’t wake him up, he needs his sleep, it’s good for him, the other voice thinks, an automatic mantra, but he sighs as his hand drifts lower, his fingertips just barely tracing his neck, dipping under his white collar. Someday he’ll make more, enough for a better place, better food, fresh stuff, and he’ll keep the place eighty degrees in the winter, but he’ll never get to touch, never get to wake him up, not for that, so he might as well –

Steve jolted awake. He heard a rustling underneath him – some of the files had gotten stuck to his arms, and they fluttered out and away as he sat up. He reached out, gingerly touching his neck, because he’d swore that he’d felt someone touch him there, and that was what had woken him.

There was no one. It was quiet, even outside his window. He’d fallen asleep.

He rubbed the spot on his neck, trying to banish the warm, static-like feeling that still clung there. He stood up and walked to the kitchen, intent on checking the time.

He glanced over at the oven and frowned. That was right. A power surge had reset the clocks on every appliance in the kitchen, and that was going to be extremely annoying, because it had taken him ages to figure out how to set the flashing digital numbers in the first place.

It didn’t really matter, anyway. It was pitch black outside his window. Safe enough to assume he could go to bed.

He padded to the fridge, pulled out a carton of milk, grabbed a glass from the upper cabinet. He tried to remember his dream, but other than being touched on the neck, it was all a bit hazy. Something about a door, an old house? A window. It had been cold in the dream, and that had irritated him, but he couldn’t pin down why.

His dreams had felt so vivid lately – like being pulled back from another reality. It seemed counter-intuitive that he couldn’t actually remember them.

He sighed. It hadn’t been a nightmare, but it had been a negative dream somehow, because he’d woken up feeling – frustrated, and he hadn’t quite shaken the feeling off yet.

He poured himself a generous glass, turning his attention for the moment to the pantry, where he was pretty sure he still had some leftover Oreos. Get the double-stuffed, Sam had said, you can’t go wrong –

A crash, glass shattering. He jerked toward the noise immediately. His glass was shattered on the floor in a white puddle. He sucked in a deep breath, searching immediately for an excuse – he’d set it on the edge of the counter, but did he? When did anyone do that?

“Okay,” he said out loud, walking to the mess and kneeling down in front of it. He didn’t want to think about it, and that seemed like the only thing he could say. “Okay …”

He started to pick up the largest pieces, gingerly setting them on the palm of his hand.

“Christ, Bucky,” he said, and he felt absurd saying it, but no one was there to hear him, so why not? “Since when do you have a problem with a guy pouring himself a glass of milk?”

He carried his pile of large shards to the trash, overturning his hand to dump them in. He must’ve curved his hand just slightly around one of the pieces, though, because it cut, a little streak of red on his palm. As he stared at it, a swollen bead of red began to form.

“Perfect,” he muttered, flexing the cut. It was thin, like a papercut – just barely there.

“Sorry.”

Steve nearly jumped out of his skin, spinning around to face the kitchen again. The voice had been right behind him, almost speaking into his ear, clear, and loud, and he’d heard it before –

But no one was there. Of course, no one was there.

He was starting to panic a little, and he was also suddenly angry, angry that the world had brought back Bucky only to take him away again – the world was taunting him, except this situation made less sense than a brainwashed assassin held in cryosleep for seventy years.

He took in a few deep breaths, but it wasn’t enough to calm himself down.

“If you’re here, say something again,” he said. He waited, not sure what he thought would happen – that all the cabinet doors would open at once, that a flesh and blood Winter Soldier would appear around the corner, but there was nothing.

“Anything,” he prompted again. “Anything, just … I need to know that something is really here.”

That I’m not losing my mind, he thought. He waited in the stillness of his kitchen, watching the puddle of milk ooze slowly from itself. Nothing.

Maybe he had set the glass on the edge of the counter, and after it fell, he’d jumped to conclusions. The noise of the city filtered in everywhere – shouts, sirens, cars backfiring in the middle of the night. And any noise, distorted through the walls, could sound like a voice.

Especially if you wanted to hear one.

He decided to leave it at that. In any case, he was done, now, with the kitchen.

He walked to his bedroom. It didn’t feel like a refuge, exactly – there’d been footsteps in the bedroom, something sat on the bed, unless he’d be dreaming, which he probably had – but it was the normal thing to do, and that was all that seemed to matter for the moment. He had an impulse to call someone – Nat, or Sam – but it was late, and what was he going to say? 

He’d knocked over a glass of milk and thought he’d heard Bucky apologize?

No. He’d go to sleep, and in the morning, he’d try harder not to hear things that he wanted to hear. It made sense, actually –

He had a dream about Bucky being in his room, sort of. He wanted it to be real, for Bucky to be there, so he made it real with every little coincidence. He constructed his own paranoia, and that was how he’d heard his voice.

He’d been trying to remember Bucky’s voice since seeing him. His real voice, easy and relaxed, mocking and playful. It killed him that he couldn’t quite remember. Hearing his voice – that one word – had been a rush of recognition, but he still couldn’t bring it back alive in his memory of his own volition.

He wanted to ask the Smithsonian if they had audio for the film of them together, but that would’ve meant admitting he’d forgotten. It was too deep an insult.

Maybe he just wanted him, all of it, a little too badly.

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

In his dream, he is watching himself sleep again. 

This time, he’s in bed, half-curled into himself. He can see a hand – his hand, the him watching, and he is him, in the dream - rubbing slow circles into his back. His face his hidden by the pillow, but it’s unmistakably him, the old him, the slight frame and blond hair. The old him shudders from time to time, making soft, embarrassed sniffling noises, and he realizes he is crying. 

“S’all right,” a voice says, Bucky’s voice, clear but gentle. “S’all right.”

The Steve he is watching tries to clear his throat, but it’s muffled into the pillow. 

“Don’t need you to baby me,” he mutters. The hand never stops its slow, fluid circles.

“Everybody gets nightmares,” Bucky’s voice says. It pauses as he thinks. “I just wish there was something I could do.”

And when he pauses, he can see his thoughts – see a casket being lowered into the ground, a crowd of people with sniffly bowed heads – and he realizes what Bucky is thinking about, talking about. He doesn’t mean the nightmares. He means his mother’s death.

The other Steve must know it, too.

“You can’t,” he says, his voice firm even with his mouth pressed close to the bed. “I can’t.”

A long moment passes, and he realizes how close he is to Steve, how his thigh is parallel to his chest. If they shifted just a little, he could be almost in his lap. He could almost hold him.

And then – “Nice you’re here.”

He feels something swell in his – Bucky’s – chest at that, and his slow circles slow further, and deepen.

“Ain’t going anywhere,” he says, and the little bit of happiness fades as he goes on thinking, and Steve hears his thoughts like his own – not going anywhere, not now, not ever, even when I find him a nice girl, I’ll take what I can get, it’ll be enough, I’ll stay as long as I–

The old Steve, in bed, makes a soft murmuring sound. It makes the crushing swell return, briefly. It makes his chest feel tight, makes him almost want to cry himself, but that would be selfish. It wasn’t his mother that was fresh in the ground.

It’s gonna be okay, Steve, he thinks. Don’t worry. He wouldn’t leave. Couldn’t. They could put him in a box, too, but God would have to drag him kicking and screaming to Heaven, lock him inside the goddamned pearly gates. He couldn’t leave him for anything. If it came to that, he’d wait for him, and they’d go together.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

“Steve!”

He jolted awake, lifting his body half up out of the warm cocoon he’d created inside the blankets. He blinked, squinting hard toward the doorway to his bedroom.

“Nat?” he questioned.

It was her, furious and uncharacteristically unkempt, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. He eyed her gun where she still held it down at her side.

“Asshole,” she said. “I thought you were dead.”

He frowned at her, still so tired. The feeling of whatever he’d been dreaming was still with him – something heavy and comforting, like sleep itself, but also, inexplicably sad. It made it hard to think.

“I was sleeping,” he said, sitting up fully. Natasha finally sheathed her gun, placing her hand pointedly on her hip. 

“I got that, thanks,” she said, still staring him down.

“I don’t – why are you –“

“Sam texted me,” she said icily. “He said you didn’t meet him for your run.”

Damn, the run. He didn’t need to glance toward his window to see the bright sunlight pouring in.

“So you assumed I was dead?” he questioned, frowning. He tugged the covers a little higher above his waist. 

“No, I assumed you were dead when I walked into your kitchen and there was a smashed glass of milk on the floor like someone snuck in your window and knocked you out in the middle of breakfast.”

“Oh,” he said. “That. I – that happened last night. I didn’t feel like cleaning it up.”

Natasha frowned at him, her features softening just slightly in confusion.

“Okay,” she said, clearly reading into the statement. “And then you overslept?”

“I must have,” he said. He was beginning to remember what had happened with the glass of milk, and it made him wary. “What time is it?”

“You’re Captain America,” she said, the sarcasm in her voice not lost on him. “You don’t oversleep.”

“I thought I was an old man,” he offered, earning the slightest ghost of a smile. But it faded quickly, drowned out by concern. “I am still human. I’ve just been having these weird dreams the past couple nights.”

“Weird dreams?” she asked, her frown deepening. “What – like nightmares?”

“The first one was a nightmare, but the others were more – they were just really intense, and vivid, and even though I couldn’t remember what they were about when I woke up, I remembered all the feelings that went with it. You know what I mean?”

Natasha finally seemed to acknowledge that he was shirtless in bed, slightly averting her eyes.

“You should probably get dressed,” she said stiffly. “And now that I’ve confirmed you’re alive, you can buy me breakfast.”

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

Steve watched Natasha as she sliced into her omelet with all the delicacy of an outrageously overpriced steak, lifting the first bite to her lips only to chew it very, very slowly.

Then she suddenly met his eyes.

“Is he there?” she asked quietly, not breaking her gaze as she swallowed.

He was startled at first, because he hadn’t exactly said – but then he realized that she meant her question literally. 

“No,” he said, and the word came out more sullen than he’d expected. “Didn’t you search my apartment this morning? You know, after breaking in?”

“I didn’t search the bedroom,” she offered. 

“He’s not there,” he said again, firmly, and by the way she adverted her eyes, he could tell that she believed him.

“Then did he show up?” she went on. Her voice was low and even, but even he could detect the real concern behind her words.

“No,” he repeated. He wished it was that easy. He wished the Winter Soldier would just show up on his doorstep. Break a window and then crawl through like a stray cat.

“Then what happened?” she hissed. She cut another slice of her omelet, this time a little more briskly. “No one just leaves broken glass lying around their house. Especially not you.”

He let out a quick huff of breath, half-annoyed, but mostly defeated by her logic.

“I don’t know,” he said, and it isn’t really a lie. “I fell asleep going over the file. Then I woke up, and it was late, so I went to pour myself a glass of milk before I went to sleep. And then I swear that I …”

He trailed off, uncertain, but even just recalling it like this he can hear the voice again, quiet but deliberate, speaking just behind him.

Natasha waited, holding her knife poised halfway above her plate.

“I swear I heard his voice,” he said. He tried not to let his voice crack even slightly, but he thought the desperation in it must be clear, especially to her.

She sighed a little, setting aside her utensils.

“Steve,” she said, and her eyes narrowed with the slightest bit of determination. “You can’t talk that way.”

Again he’s left at a brief impasse, unsure of what she meant.

“Talk what way?” he asked.

“You’re talking about him like he’s dead,” she said blankly.

At first he didn’t understand, but then it dawned on him that this was how people who’d lost a loved one talked about them, sometimes. They could still hear their voice. They thought they might be watching over them, somehow.

He wasn’t sure what to say, so he just nodded, taking a quick sip of his coffee.

He nearly dropped the mug when he felt Natasha’s fingers brush softly over his.

“You’re going to find him,” she said, giving his hand the briefest squeeze before pulling hers back. “He just doesn’t want to be found.”

Steve wasn’t so sure about that.

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

Later he found himself at the door to his apartment, turning the key as if the final click would trigger a bomb going off.

He opened it slowly, surveying what he could see before stepping inside. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find – his apartment ransacked, or maybe just a few select items toppled over. A dark shadow standing there. A rush of icy air.

Nothing.

He walked purposefully into the kitchen. It was empty and unremarkable now – he’d cleaned up the glass and milk before heading out with Natasha. The clocks on the appliances still flashed at him blankly, but only because he hadn’t fixed them yet.

He moved into the dining room, settling down at the table intending to open the file again, read and reread the same pieces of paper until his eyes bled or he somehow managed to piece something together.

But as he looked between the papers and his laptop, a deep curiosity bloomed inside him, not a whim so much as a growing need. He slid it toward him.

He would do what everyone in this century seemed to do when they needed help. 

He’d consult the Internet.

He pulled up Google (Sam had made fun of him once, because he always typed the address of the search engine first, then searched, even though he could type the word in the address line and search from there, skipping a step – but this was the way he’d learned, and he couldn’t give up the extra second). He typed the word “ghosts”.

Wikipedia is one of the first pages to come up, of course, and he clicked on it. A definition, then a lowdown of ghosts as recognized across various cultures, ghosts as they appeared in the media. The ‘yurei’ of Japan, the ghost of Hamlet’s father in Shakespeare. 

He glossed over it, sighing. Nothing that could help him.

As he scrolled near the end, a list of more specific search terms appeared. His eyes paused on one, and he slid his finger forward to select it.

See also: ghost hunting.


	4. Chapter 4

Some of the options available to him seemed absurdly simple, based on technology that existed even in the 1940’s. Sound recorders (although they’d ditched the tape and gone digital). A device claiming that as it swept quickly through empty radio frequencies, ghosts could speak through the white noise.

It was a little unimpressive for the time he was in now. If all you needed to do was make a recording and play it back, wouldn’t the possibility of ghosts have become less of a mystery by now?

But some of the others intrigued him. Cameras that could take photos and video in infrared and UV light, where ghosts invisible to the naked eye could be captured. Devices that recorded variations in the electromagnetic spectrum. A little box with a speaker that supposedly contained a dictionary the ghost could access with their ‘energy,’ choosing words that would then be spoken out loud. He couldn’t understand how even a ghost could vary its energy enough to pinpoint one word out of thousands, but that was the claim. There were even little pods that claimed to do nothing but release energy, making it available to nearby ghosts and giving them the power to – do things.

And thanks to the Internet, it was all instantly available for purchase.

It was all, frankly, overwhelming. He had a brief impulse to call Bruce and press him for his opinion on the energy issue, since it seemed to be something he was an expert on, but he squashed that idea immediately. There was no real way to shroud, for long, what he was trying to look into.

He ended up throwing a bit of everything into the ‘shopping cart’ on the most reputable-looking website he could find, covering all of his bases. Even though the total made him wince – he still felt uncomfortable spending a lot of money in one place, even though he didn’t think he could ever spend the amount gifted him in this century – completing the purchase ultimately felt as easy as buying groceries.

He felted like he needed it all, so there was no point in thinking too hard about it. And, thank God, they offered express shipping.

He closed his laptop, suddenly aware again of where he was. His apartment, quiet and unremarkable.

It was early afternoon, and he could pick up now where he’d left off with the file. He could comb over the list of known Hydra bases and safehouses again, study the map he’d made of those locations marked across the globe, hoping to see a logical blank space where the existence of an as-of-yet-unknown base would make sense.

He knew there were too many holes. The world was too big, even for him, to search on his own. Or with a dedicated friend. Or even with a team. He needed an organization - just like the kind he’d recently helped to dismantle.

He sighed, brushing aside papers to find the list. He told himself it wasn’t impossible. He could get lucky. He’d gotten lucky before. He’d cheated death, even.

It was the same streak of luck that had lost him Bucky, but it was all he had left to trust in. The generosity of fate.

The hours dragged on, until, as the sun started to set outside of his window, he suddenly felt drained. A heaviness fell over him, making his shoulders slump forward, and all of the words started to blur a little together, despite the mantra in his mind that the smallest clue, the most subtle abnormality, could be significant.

He rarely felt tired this way – the kind of tired that came inevitably from lack of sleep or too many hours awake, not the physical exhaustion of battle. It reminded him of being in his old body, when he was still recovering from the last illness but too stubborn to be in bed, and the heaviness that lingered in his chest like thick water seeped into his limbs.

He felt drained, incredibly drained. He laid his forehead on his hand, but he couldn’t fight it. His energy was gone.

He forced himself to stand up. It was ridiculously early, to be feeling this way, but he told himself that it did no good, working through the file when he couldn’t even keep his eyes open. If he hadn’t seen what was hidden there already, he’d never find it as a zombie.

He made his way to his bedroom, pulling his shirt over his head as he paused in front of the mattress. Sleep was calling him like a drink calling an alcoholic, and that made no sense, but had anything, really, lately?

He set his phone on the nightstand, guiltily ignoring the text messages from Sam that he was too tired to return. He saw it then.

The picture frame. Face down.

He picked it up, letting his mouth hang open slightly, because he was too exhausted to frown over it. This time, the glass had cracked a little, a jagged line coming down from the top right and toward the left. It separated them, ending at Bucky’s smile.

Even though he knew it was just the glass, that the picture itself was fine, he still felt a wave of sadness wash over him. Almost like regret.

“Fine,” he said, and he laid the picture frame back down, exactly as he’d found it. He mumbled the words, feeling stupid, but also vaguely comforted. It felt good to address him – it – the presence there – out loud. “You win this round.”

He kicked off his pants and fell into bed, his breathing settling immediately into the steady rhythm needed for sleep.

“Still like that picture of you,” he whispered as the world went black.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

“Can I draw you like that?”

He glances up, lowering his book a few inches. It’s always hard to read in their apartment, dim and shadowy inside even on a sunny day, and he has to squint a little to focus on the words.

He looks at himself across the room – that is, at Steve. He’s leaning back against the headboard, his knees pulled nearly up to his chest so he can use them as a brace for his sketchbook. They’d switched beds, because it was colder under the window at night, but in the daytime the spot underneath had better light.

The corner of his mouth twitches up just a little. Steve always asks to draw him like a regular person asks to borrow something – like he was going to take something precious away from him. He never turns him down, but he still asks every time.

“Do I gotta spend the afternoon staring at you?” he quips. He likes to say things like that sometimes, take jabs at himself, because he knows perfectly well that he only pretends to read so that he can hear the soft scribble of Steve’s pencil a few feet away and enjoy the beautiful silence between them, calm and perfect like fresh snow on Christmas morning. 

Steve looks down briefly, abashed, as if he really is worried about taking up any of his time. 

“No, ‘course not,” he says. “I just wanna do a quick impression.”

“Sure, pal,” he replies, and he tries to keep his voice light, but as Steve lowers his head back to the paper he can feel his breath quicken a little, knowing that he’ll be watched. He tries to read, but he can feel the other boy’s eyes whenever he pauses and looks up at him, memorizing the next angle so he can echo it in charcoal on the page. It’s like a finger on his chin leading his head to turn, making him want to meet those eyes again and again.

Finally, Steve finishes, rubbing out a few little lines until he seems to decide it’s perfect.

“You wanna see?” he asks, and it’s funny, hearing his own voice out loud, like hearing a recording. He – Bucky – he doesn’t care to see himself in the sketch so much as he does the excuse to bridge the gap between them, move to sit on the other bed and hover over his shoulder.

He studies the sketch, feeling a sense of dread settle in his chest. He thought Steve was gonna draw him reading, but instead he’s captured him looking up from the page. His expression is neutral, his mouth open just a little, but his eyes look tired, dull with longing, like a man staring helplessly out at what he can’t have.

At least, that’s what he sees, and he hopes to god Steve isn’t seeing it too.

“I tried to capture a moment,” Steve is saying, his voice hesitant. “You know, kind of like a photograph. Does it look like that? Like a photo?”

“No,” he says out loud, before he can think, and the face on the old Steve falls immediately, and his heart falls with it, to see even the briefest look of disappointment. He backpeddles. “I mean, no –“

He starts to laugh, because making light of it, pretending to make light of everything Steve does that feels incredible, has become one of his only ways of hiding.

“You know I always smile for pictures,” he says, so easily, and he watches as Steve’s face recovers itself, how he almost rolls his eyes at him. And it was true, he did. And if he was there next to him, he didn’t even have to fake it.

He wonders if he should say yes, the next time Steve asks to draw him. It’s clearly a dangerous game, but the memory of Steve’s eyes on him, tracing the outline of his skin like he was the drawing being created, and not the subject – 

He never could turn him down.

Steve is waking up.

At first the light in the room seemed like the light in the dream – hazy shadows, dim enough to be almost comforting. His throat was tight with an anxiety he couldn’t place, and it made him want to turn his head, hide his face away in the pillow.

It was dawn, the pink-orange light just barely beginning to drift in through the window. And that wasn’t good, he groggily realized, because even waking up at dawn meant he’d slept a solid twelve hours.

He knew he needed to get up. If he missed a second run with Sam, he’d be obligated to take the explanation to a higher level, and he didn’t want that. It occurred to him vaguely that he might be sick – he’d never been sick in this body, but that didn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t possible. There was no reason he should be so –

He jerked as something brushed against his forehead, an electric charge diffused into a shape, warm and solid, and the memory came to him –

His hand pressing briefly into his forehead, brushing stray pieces of blond to the side. Too much heat, and a clenching in his chest, and Bucky’s voice, except he can feel his lips move along with their sound, feel his tongue lick them in worry -

“I think we need to call a doctor, Stevie –“

Now he was sitting up, his chest seizing. It felt like he’d fallen asleep for just a moment, gone back into a dream and woken up in an instant, except that he remembered waking up. He’d woken up and thought about dawn and Sam and sickness, and then he’d felt –

He swung his legs almost violently onto the floor. The run. He needed to get dressed, to hurry, get out the door before his phone lit up with text messages. 

He threw on some clothes, shutting off his mind as he laced his shoes, locked his door. As he passed the anonymous doors of his apartment building, he almost felt different, something shifting inside him. It was like walking out of a dark movie theater and into the afternoon light.

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

“I can’t believe I’m saying this man, but … you wanna ease up a little?”

He looked back over his right shoulder. It killed him to slow his pace, but after a moment of hesitation he did, slipping back toward his friend.

They ran in silence for a moment, and Steve felt absurdly focused on his footfalls, heavy but quick, bringing him forward in an endless, pounding rhythm. He doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t want to think.

“Wound kinda tight, huh?” Sam prompted, and it was hard, it really was, to be annoyed that he was trying to pry. His intentions always rang true in his voice, no matter how innocuous the words were.

“Just frustrated,” he said between breaths, and that wasn’t exactly a lie.

“No new clues, then?” he pressed. Steve thought of the photo left on his dining room table, the overturned picture frame, the shattered glass on his kitchen floor.

“No,” he said, and his voice must be more loaded than he intended, because Sam eased himself back.

“You’ll hit on something,” he offered, even though they both knew the words rang hollow. “I’m sorry, man. You need to run? You run.” 

And even though he normally wouldn’t have even considered it, would’ve hung back and diffused the conversation with easy small talk, he felt himself picking up his pace again, pumping his arms harder, letting his feet hit the ground like falling cinderblocks.

He ran hard enough to feel his muscles burn and stretch like an abused Slinky, but even as the monuments fell behind him and they inevitably looped back to the beginning of their course, he wasn’t tired. If anything, he was wired with energy, straining to erode it down into nothing. 

As he slowed to a walking pace next to Sam, he felt it in the other man’s silence – the invitation to vent, to let it all out. To describe his frustrations in detail and gratefully accept sensible advice.

But he couldn’t make himself talk about it. Not yet.

He could feel Sam’s eyes on his back as he walked away, and he wondered how he’d managed to take for granted the feeling of not being watched.

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

His apartment was quiet, but that was becoming less and less of a comfort. If anything, it almost felt a little more menacing – like a minefield, hidden under a blanket of wildflowers.

A shower was now unavoidable, and he tried to make use of the same tactic he’d used to get out of bed – it had, after all, worked somewhat well. He shut down his mind, focused on his next immediate goal. Tried not to think.

He stripped off his clothes, setting the water temperature hotter than usual. It felt good, visceral, to step under the burning spray. It kept him focused on his body, even if it failed to help his tense muscles relax.

He finished as quickly as he could, snatching the towel hanging on the rod like a lifeline. He started to dry himself off, telling himself that if he could just get through that one step, he’d be fine.

But he looked up.

It wasn’t much. It looked like a streak, a long smear. But as he straightened up and approached the mirror, he could see a pattern, one thick line, five thinner ones above, ending in an undeniable shape.

A hand.

He stared at it, and something in him clicked. He’d been so strained by the anxiety of not knowing what would happen in the next moment, sent spiraling by memories that seized and left him like water running through a sieve, that he’d forgotten the most terrifying, but also the most amazing, part of what was happening.

What if it really was him?

It looked like a big hand, and he tried to remember Bucky’s hands. He could see them loose in conversation, curled around a bottle, feel them cupping his shoulder tightly and then letting go. He saw charcoal studies that he hated because they never looked quite right, smelled the alcohol on the cotton that he rubbed over the bloody knuckles, because Bucky’d stepped in again to clean up his mess.

He took in a heady breath. The print was fading with the steam from the shower, growing larger and blurrier, and in a moment it would be a misformed circle, and then nothing.

He reached out, pressing his fingertips to the damp glass.  
He reaches out, bracing his hand against the mirror for a moment as he stares down into the sink, forcing his breathing to slow. He runs the water cold, splashing it on his face in overflowing handfuls. Some of it trails down his neck, soaking into his shirt.

He had no right, no fucking right, he had to keep a better goddamn hold on himself. The cold is a shock but it helps, and he brushes his wet, dark hair out of his eyes. It’s impossible not to catch sight of himself in the mirror, and when he does, he turns away immediately – he feels sick.

If Steve could see him – but he can’t see him, that’s the thing, that’s why he’s so stupid. Granted, he could explain it away on something else, stray thoughts, and Steve bless his heart would probably believe him but eventually he’d get caught and that was why –

He grips either side of the sink hard, willing it away, but he can’t, and even grinding his crotch into the cool porcelain gives him the sweetest ache, and oh he’s going to hell, he’s definitely going to hell, he’s going to live this over and over again in hell –

Steve stepped back.

He almost fell into the wall behind him, using it as a brace once he realized it was there. It was suddenly cold in the bathroom – the steam was gone, the heat dissipated, and now the air was colder, but too cold.

He parted his lips, sucking it in. It was hard not to shiver.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

He jumped at the sound of the doorbell, as if a gunshot had gone off through his living room. He tried to be calm, feeling anxiety replaced by a growing anticipation as he got up to answer the door.

He doesn’t think he’s ever been more relieved to get his mail.

He unpacked the box carefully, ultimately laying everything out across his dining room table in uniform rows. The potential there was overwhelming, frightening, even, but as he turned the various devices in his hands, he felt an undeniable sense of comfort. That, and a little bit of empowerment.

He was beginning to understand why a man like Tony Stark surrounded himself with technology.

The digital voice recorder required computer software, and he didn’t think he had the time and patience for that yet. Ironically, however, he shunned the “spirit box” because it was so direct and immediate. It was a little too intimidating.

He’d start with something simple.


	5. Chapter 5

He set it carefully on the left side of the bed, propping it up against the pillows.

“Okay,” he said out loud. He tried to resist the urge to look around the room – nothing had happened for hours, and when things did happen, they just happened – there was no pattern. He couldn’t know if Bucky’s presence came and went or if it was always there, but alone or not, he didn’t think he had the patience to wait until he was given another sign.

“I’m going to show you how this works,” he continued, fighting the feeling that he was talking to himself. “I know it looks like a stuffed animal, but it has these sensors inside it –“

He gripped one of the arms softly, and a bright green circle lit up from within the fur, along with a shrill ring.

“They’re like alarms, they go off if someone touches the bear,” he finished. He pinched the teddy bear’s other limbs, demonstrating. “You can make them go off too. If you touch it, I’ll know that you’re here.”

He repositioned the bear carefully, then walked around to the other side of the bed. He supposed he could’ve set up the bear anywhere, but it seemed like his bedroom had some of the most ‘activity’. It was beginning to feel like he never dreamed alone.

“I’m just gonna lay here,” he said, sitting on the mattress and stretching out his legs over it. “No pressure.”

He waited. The silence in his apartment had never felt so oppressive, with seconds dragging on into minutes. He settled his head back on the pillow, staring up at the ceiling.

Nothing.

Maybe he was pushing his luck by asking. Maybe it was something that couldn’t be controlled.

He sighed, folding and unfolding his hands over his chest. The evening light was still strong outside the window, even with the curtains drawn. It was too early to be tired, but something about the dim light and the bed and the quiet made him want to close his eyes.

His breathing slowed, calm and steady, in sync with his heartbeat.

“Com’on, Buck,” he whispered. “Try.”

“Come on, folks! Give it a try!”

He lets his eyes drift to the booth, frowning. Its frame is covered with the same stuffed bears he’s seen randomly along the boardwalk, dangling from the free hands of pretty girls who let the other be held tightly, their skirts brushing close to their partner’s legs as they walk together.

He’s taken by a surge of sudden jealousy, twisting his gut and making his hand curl into a fist.

He wanted one. He wanted one too.

“Hold on,” he finds himself saying, and as he slows, Steve slows down with him. He glances around him briefly to see the booth, and his cheeks are already pink from the time spent walking around in the sun. He looks healthier.

“You serious?” he asks, narrowing his blue eyes with characteristic skepticism. 

“You sayin’ I can’t knock down a stack of old milk bottles?” he questions back, trying to sound more teasing than defensive.

“Those games are all rigged,” he says, a little solemnly, but Bucky knows he’s less worried about not winning and more worried about the cost. Money – the ghost he can’t escape, even here.

“Somebody’s gotta win sometime,” he answers. And even just thinking briefly about the money he doesn’t have makes him want to spend it, because nothing made a guy feeler poorer than walking around Coney Island without a dime to spend, and he couldn’t let that guy be Steve.

“It’s your money,” he replies warily. He suddenly wonders if the game is really rigged, if he really can’t win, because if he can’t win for Steve, can’t prove to him that not every gamble in the world has the odds stacked against them, something inside him might give out.

He pays the man, holds the heavy ball in his palm like guessing its weight will help his aim.

He has three chances. On his first throw, he takes out a chuck of the pyramid of bottles, leaving just the base. When he turns and sees his friend’s half-smile, he almost feels like he hit a goddamn home run.

The next two shots seem to hit on course, tipping over one more, but the last corner of the pyramid is annoyingly solid, and Bucky wonders if Steve was right and they were glued together. Still, he’s evidently done well enough to win a consolation prize.

It’s a little bear, white and cheaply made and much smaller than the ones hanging around the booth. But it’s something.

They start to walk away together, and Bucky tosses it to him, as if on impulse.

“Give it to a dame you like,” he says, and he hates the words even as they slip out of his mouth, but it’s almost enough to watch Steve’s eyes widen, see him turn the bear over in his hands in surprise.

“Sure,” he says. “Bribe ‘em. Great idea.” But his smile is big and bright like the sun on the water, and it makes him wish he could shower him with gifts, give him a present every day, because he can’t even give him a warm room to sleep in.

At least it was summer, now. He’d try to enjoy it while it lasted.

Later he’s stiffly unbuttoning his shirt, tired and spent after the long day on his feet and the train ride home, trying not to watch as Steve undresses too a few feet away. 

“Y’know, I think I’ll give this to some kid at the orphanage,” he says out of the blue, as if he’s been considering it for a long time. “It’ll be a while before I find someone else to give it to.”

“You never know,” he replies automatically, but he doesn’t want to sound like he’s arguing. It’s a good idea, and he can’t pretend that he doesn’t find this plan a thousand times more appealing, as selfish as that is. “I’m sure that kid’ll be real happy.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. He smiles, a real, warm, tired smile, and picks the bear up off the bed. Bucky watches as he props it carefully up against his headboard, like a cherished toy from childhood.

He can see it outlined in the darkness after they’ve gone to sleep, its white fur almost luminescent, the shiny black button eyes reflecting back the moonlight from outside. It’s only a few inches behind Steve’s head, his face relaxed and peaceful in sleep.

The tears burn at his eyes before he can stop them. He turns toward the wall, feeling stupid, helpless. Pathetic, that even this should get to him.

He opened his eyes. The room was deep in shadow, almost black, until there was a brief flash of green. A long, shrill ring. Disoriented, he thought for a second that it might be his cell phone, but then he remembered –

He turned to his side, just in time to see the sensor on the bear’s arm go dark.

“Bucky?” he asked, urgently. He sat up, careful not to get too close to the teddy bear and set it off himself. He tried to keep his breathing even, but his heart had been racing since the moment he woke up, and it wasn’t about to slow down now.

“Buck,” he said, uselessly looking around the empty room in the dark. “Listen, if you’re here … can you touch it again?”

He waited, trying not to hold his breath. A long, loaded moment passed, and then –

The same arm lit up with a circle of green, and the alarm cut through the air, holding strong for a few seconds before dying out.

Breathing. He needed to breathe.

“Okay,” he said. “Thank you. Now I know you’re … you’re here.”

He said the words, but he wasn’t sure that he fully believed them, not yet. Or maybe he did, but his mind hadn’t fully embraced it – it seemed to be shorting out, while his chest was tight with amazement.

Then he remembered. He had more than the bear.

“Hold on,” he said quickly, searching his nightstand desperately in the dim light. “Just wait … don’t go anywhere.”

He felt ridiculous saying it – if he could control coming and going, would he really just disappear now – but he couldn’t escape the feeling that he was racing against the clock. He’d been allotted a window of only a few brief seconds, and he wasn’t about to waste it.

His fingers closed around the little plastic box, and he felt for the controls with his fingertips, turning it on. The glowing dots of green and red looked like tiny eyes in the dark.

“Okay,” he said hurriedly. “Bucky, this thing is a … well, it has a dictionary in it, and you can choose a word, and it’ll speak it out loud.”

He held it out dumbly in front of him, frowning.

“I don’t actually know how it works,” he confessed. “I read online that you’re supposed to be able to figure it out pretty easily, but … I don’t know. Just try. Please.”

He waited again, wishing there was more he could say to explain. A long, silent moment passed, and he found himself checking the lights to make sure the box was working.

“It’s okay, if it’s hard to figure out,” he said, his voice finally slowing down a little bit. “Maybe it just takes some practice.”

He looked around the room, trying to think of anything he could say that would be encouraging. That could help.

“Maybe we can just start off with something easy,” he said, gripping the box a little tighter, as if the pressure of his hand could somehow make it work. His eyes settled on the bear, sitting quietly against the pillows of his bed.

“Can you tell me what that is?” he asked, pointing gingerly toward it.

Another stretch of silence, and his grip on the box tightened. His entire arm was stiff with tension; he realized that he was just a few moments of silence away from throwing it against the wall.

“Come on, Bucky,” he said, embarrassed suddenly at the desperation in his voice. “What’s that thing sitting on the bed? Just one word. You touched it earlier.”

He thought the word in his head, as if that could somehow help. Bear.

Bear, bear, bear …

He waited. Maybe he’d gotten to close to it himself while he was sleeping. Maybe it was just … broken, going off at random. He had no proof that anything he’d bought worked.

“GIFT.”

He jumped, staring at the glowing lights of the box. It was a cold, simulated voice, but it had spoken. He glanced at the word where it was written out on the small screen.

“A gift?” he asked, looking between the box and the teddy bear, still silent in its spot. It wasn’t what he was expecting, but it made a kind of sense.

“Are you asking if this is a gift for you?” he questioned, looking at the little bear in a new light. It was hard, suddenly, to fight back a smile. “I guess you could say that. I did kind of buy it for you.”

He was almost shaking. It hadn’t sunken in it, that this was working, but he felt high. 

“Can you tell me more about it?” he prompted. “What color is it?”

No answer. It occurred to him that maybe that was a stupid question, that maybe it took a lot of effort for him to access the box and make it work, and he might not want to struggle to tell him something he already knew.

“Sorry, that was dumb, I guess,” he said, when it was clear nothing was going to come through. “I just – I don’t know what to say, really –“

“GAME.”

The cold digital voice startled him, made him jump a little, but then he found himself unsure what to say. That word didn’t seem to have anything to do with the bear, with what he was asking.

He let the word sink in a little, but he still felt at a loss.

“I’m not playing a game,” he said, softly. He was suddenly hating the limits of the device, when even a moment ago it had felt like it was doing the impossible. Now it wasn’t nearly enough.

“LOST.”

Even though the word is said with the same dead tone, it gives him a chill none the less. He feels like Bucky might be trying to tell him everything, to spill it out in a rush of sentences, and all he can hear is the last word. 

“We haven’t lost yet,” he said finally, his voice almost a whisper. If he felt high a moment ago, now he was embracing a new level of utter helplessness.

He waited, licking his lips in the heavy silence.

“Are you lost?” he asked. 

He had wanted answers so much. Now it occurred to him how frightening they might be to hear.

He waited, asking question after question, feeling his hopes bleed into fears that he wasn’t sure he was ready to acknowledge.

No other words came through.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

Steve set the bear on the kitchen counter as he got ready to make a sandwich. It slumped over to the side at first, and he righted it so that it sat up straight, its dark glass eyes watching him.

He took out a plate and bread, then raided his refrigerator for everything else: turkey, cheese, tomatoes, lettuce. He slowed his movements down as he reached the knife drawer, being sure to wrap his fingers tightly around the handle as he pulled it out.

As he sliced the tomatoes, the knife felt like it cut too easily through the thin, tight skin, letting the blade slam down through the juice and pulp and into the wooden carving board underneath.

He was maybe being too careful. So careful he was freaking himself out, on edge for any sudden sound. The bear going off. Something else falling over.

He sighed. Was it going to be like this from now on? Living endlessly on edge?

But he collected the bear diligently with his free hand, tucking it under his arm and ignoring the shrill rings as he padded into his living room. He grabbed the ghost dictionary too – the bear was a little defunct without it.

Eating was important, even if he’d been hungry so long that it had faded into an almost imperceptible ache. Doing something other than sleeping was important. Doing something other than staring with dead eyes at the dissembled file was important, too, but not important enough to warrant much more of a break than was necessary to finish his sandwich.

After all, there was no reason to think that Bucky couldn’t come back while he was working through it. Draw his attention, somehow, to the right page, the right image. Narrow it down so he had a chance.

And he would do that, soon, but just for a moment, he wanted to hear a voice. A human voice, and briefly glimpse the world outside his apartment.

He flipped on the TV.

He could understand why it was so addicting and popular. At the touch of a button, you could look into another place, watch other people, and the endless images were comforting, almost subconsciously distracting. Radio shows required your careful attention – you had to follow along, listen. With TV, you could let your focus slide in and out.

He skimmed through the channels, torn for a moment between an hour-long documentary on the Vietnam War and a special on classic diners lining Route 66. He choose the latter on gut impulse – the colors were brighter, and he didn’t think he could handle anything heavy.

He chewed on his blasé sandwich as he watched other people struggle to fit huge hamburgers between their teeth. Periodically, the show looped footage of the landscape along the highway, and the ruddy tones of the desert, although barren and stark, also looked warm. So much warmer than the chilly, gray east coast.

He hadn’t travelled much. It felt like maybe he had, like the world had gotten smaller since waking up with the advent of massive passenger jets, but he hadn’t gone to Europe for pleasure. Back then, he thought of it like a threadbare quilt thrown over jagged rock. The different squares of color outlined country borders, but beyond that, stepping across it only mean varying degrees of danger and pain.

There was a time, though, before the war, when he didn’t think that way. When he wanted to see David, the real David, in person, stare up in awe at the Sistine Chapel. Get lost in the Louvre. But there never felt like much point in even daydreaming about that. At that time, a vacation involving the crossing of a state line felt too over the top.

Bucky never talked much about traveling, either.

He leaned back on the sofa, setting his empty plate aside. He tried to come up with memories of Bucky talking about what he wanted to see of the world, where he wanted to go. But there was almost nothing.

Bucky mostly just talked about getting a better apartment. One with fewer drafts.

He sighed under his breath. Somehow, the fact that he’d never really wanted to go anywhere made the fact that he never had even sadder.

But then – he thought of something.

He couldn’t place the night. It was one of a handful in which Bucky had come home with a small bottle of whiskey and the excuse that going out would’ve been more expensive. He could almost see him in his mind’s eye, knees up, back leaning languidly against the side of his mattress, hands bracing himself on the floor. His neck lolling lazily from side to side.

“Grand Canyon,” he’d said, the back of his head finally settling against the bed.

He’d snorted, but his smile hadn’t been far from genuine.

“Yeah?” he asked. “You gonna take your kids?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes at him, and under normal circumstances, he probably would’ve come back with a sharp comeback. Maybe it was something about the whiskey, but his look was serious, and he blinked several times before returning to the moment.

“I’ll bring you,” he says casually. “If you wanna come.”

It’s a new version of a game they play often. Usually, it’s more like ‘I’ll buy that for you someday, if you want it,’ and he guesses this is really the same thing.

“Oh?” he says, and he takes another gulp from the bottle. It can’t be more than half a shot, and it burns like hell going down, but he tries to keep his face straight. “You buying my train ticket?”

Bucky looks over at him like he’d suggested they walk.

“Pssh,” he says, and even the not-word is already a little bit slurred. “Why would I take a train? I have my motorcycle.”

He looks down, not even trying not to laugh. He’s already a little too lightheaded for that, and Bucky is probably too drunk himself to be offended by much.

“Right,” he says gamely. “Of course. My arms are gonna get real tired, though, holding onto you the whole damn way.”

He means it as a joke, sort of, but the look Bucky gives him is long and surprised, his mouth falling open a little. The image of what he’s suggested catches up with him, and he glances away in embarrassment, because, of course, it’s ridiculous.

“Idiot,” the other man says, but not until the silence is already drawn out a few seconds too far. “You’ll have your motorcycle, too.”

He says it with a strangely intense conviction, and all he can do is keep laughing, trying to let the alcohol do its work and mull the awkwardness. It was a stupid assumption to jump to in a fantasy where money was no object, but he still can’t help but hold on to the image, hands clasped loosely around his waist, his head inevitably resting on his shoulder.

The thought is so detailed that the Bucky in it has a black leather jacket, and he can feel the warmth of his body through it on his cheek.

“Right,” he says again. “’Course I’d have my own bike.”

He passes Bucky the bottle finally, and he almost snatches it from him, taking an impressive chug. Steve watches as he quickly licks a stray drop out from the corner of his mouth.

“And we’ll stop at every cheap diner along the way,” he declares, after he’s swallowed, “And we’ll try every kind of pie.”

He likes that idea, so much that he doesn’t even agree out loud, just releases a little sigh of contentment at the thought.

“I wish we had pie now,” he says wistfully, but almost as soon as the words slip from him, he jerks up, as if, moving quickly, he can snatch them back into his mouth.

He’s ruined the game. The game isn’t about now, it’s about never, and right now they can’t really afford the whiskey on their breath, let alone pie.

But Bucky doesn’t let it die that easily.

“You could sketch there,” he offers, stretching the bottle back across the distance between them. He glances at it and shakes his head, and he set it between them. “In the morning. When the sun’s going down. For weeks, if you want, because you probably could do it for weeks.”

It sounds like something that could be a jab at him, at how he spends all his free hours drawing in the waxing and waning square of sunlight in their apartment, but it isn’t. He says the word ‘could’ fondly, the way mothers say they could watch their children sleep all night, or Bucky’s pretty blonde partner said she could dance all night except for her heels.

“Sounds pretty boring for you,” he says, frowning, because it seems like they’ve gone a long way from every kind of pie.

Bucky reaches back across for the bottle, bringing it back for another swift swig. He licks his lips.

“Idiot,” he says softly. He pauses, his eyes widening a little, as if thinking better of the word. He goes on, looking away into the deepening shadows of their apartment. “Could spend forever lookin’ at the Grand Canyon.”

A long, shrill ring.

He jumped, eyes flashing to the bear where he’d left it propped up carefully in the armchair across from him. It stared back at him, still and quiet and not lighting up green.

It rang again. It was not the bear.

He blinked, looking around hazily before realizing – the buzzer to his apartment.

Crap.

He let it ring several more times before standing, sucking in a steadying breath as he went to answer the door.

He held the button down on the keypad next to the door, frowning.

“Yes?” he asked tentatively. 

“Hey man. It’s Sam.”

Crap, he thought. He was not ready for Sam. He’d only just recently congratulated himself on the wisdom of making himself a sandwich.

He pressed the button in again.

“Sam? Oh, okay. Come on up.”

He released it, cursing under his breath. He had been ignoring his text messages. He had been quiet on the run. He supposed he should’ve expected something like this, except it seemed like it was too soon. Like it was only yesterday that he’d bantered away a meaningless dream about footsteps in his bedroom.

The knock on his door seemed immediate, and he steeled himself as he opened it.

Sam smiled loosely, holding up a six pack of beer.

“Mind if I come in?” he asked.

Yes, Steve thought, a little bitterly, although he half-hated himself for the thought. Still, wasn’t it rude to just show up at someone’s home, even with alcohol? Or was that an acceptable thing now?

“No,” he said, forcing a rigid smile. “Of course not. Come on in. I was just, ahh, watching some TV.”

“Oh,” Sam said, following as Steve led the way back into his living room. There was a tentative edge to his voice, almost like he, too, was faking it. “Cool. Hope I didn’t interrupt anything good.”

“Not at all,” he said, replying automatically. Sam set the pack of beer on the coffee table, but before he could sit down, he suddenly reached around himself, rubbing his upper arms.

“Damn, it’s cold in here,” he said, and drifting back toward the sofa, he could feel it too. The air felt thicker, like it was already halfway to ice. “Maybe you better ease up on the AC, huh?”

He was about to offer a meaningless statement of agreement when a shrill ring cut through the room, cutting off the words in his throat. Sam spun around, taking in a clear view of the teddy bear in the armchair, its belly pulsating green.

He lifted a finger to the bear, then looked at him with an open mouth. Then turned back to the bear.

“Steve,” he said, slowly. “The hell kind of stuffed animal –“

But he couldn’t reply to that, either, because the black plastic box he’d left next to his empty plate suddenly spoke. 

“GET. OUT.”

Sam froze, looking around the room for the source of the cold, digital voice. When he couldn’t find it, he settled his eyes on him, raising his hands slowly into the air.

“What,” he said, not trying to hide the confusion in his voice, his eyes wide with unfiltered shock. “What the fuck?”


	6. Chapter 6

“What the fuck?” Sam said slowly, pivoting in place to stare wide eyed around the living room.

“It was –“ Steve began, half-gesturing to the dictionary device before another shrill ring cut through the air. The teddy bear was lighting up again, its arm pulsating green as if being squeezed. 

Sam spun back around to face the bear, staring at it with his mouth falling open.

“Steve,” he said tensely, taking a small step backwards and pinning his legs against the coffee table. “Why is there an alarm bear in your chair telling me to leave?”

Get out.

The words are simple but so direct. It might be the first time he’s immediately understood a message – there was nothing to interpret or guess. 

“It’s not the bear,” he said, and his voice was hushed, low and almost in awe. “It’s this thing, it has a word database in it –“

He picked up the black box, holding it out in front of him by way of explanation. Sam looked at him like he was showing him a vegetable and insisting it could talk.

“TRUST.”

The device vibrated softly in his hand at the word, and his voice was cut off once again. He clutched it a little harder, his mind already racing to fill in the gaps of meaning surrounding the choice.

“Okay,” he said urgently, feeling the seconds slip by – a few more, and he could lose his window for a response. “You don’t trust Sam. I don’t blame you, you don’t know him. But you trust me, right?”

Even as he said the words, they rang hollow with doubt. Did Bucky trust him? He took that for granted. He thought of his last promises to him, can almost feel the air rushing over his fingers as they stretch out uselessly toward him, falling as the train speeds away.

“Steve,” Sam said again, firmer this time. “Who are you talking to?”

“Hold on,” he clipped, barely turning in his friend’s direction. No time. “Okay – Bucky? Just trust me. Trust that he’s a friend.”

He waited, letting his breath out in a choked huff when he realized he’d been holding it in. Seconds ticked by, but there was no response.

“Listen man,” came Sam’s voice again, a little calmer now, warier. “There’s no one here.”

He clutched the box a little tighter, willing it to work, to show him.

Nothing. Silence.

“Is it okay if he stays for a while?” he asked tentatively, holding the device out a little further in front of him, as if bringing it close to an invisible Bucky might somehow help him speak. 

He could almost hear the dead static in his ears. Empty, hollow silence.

“Bucky isn’t here, Steve,” Sam said, his voice even gentler than before. He sounded almost scared.

He finally turned to him, lowering the box to his side before setting it carefully back on the coffee table.

“I know,” he said, running a hand back through his hair. There was no running from it now, not anymore, but how could he possibly explain? “He’s not here, not really. But he’s here … in spirit.”

“Okay,” Sam said slowly, in a tone that conveyed the exact opposite of the word.

“I mean,” he started again, cursing himself in his mind. “You know that dream I told you about? Where I heard footsteps and someone invisible sat on my bed? I don’t think I was actually asleep.”

Sam didn’t say anything at first, only deepened his frown and glanced uneasily toward the white bear on the armchair, now innocuous and still.

“This stuff,” Steve said carefully, following his eyes to the bear and gesturing toward the dictionary device on the table, “It’s ghost-hunting equipment. I bought it online. It’s … it’s been working. I mean – you saw.”

Sam still didn’t look like his explanations had been processing. His mouth fell open, and he closed it, licking his lips, only to let it fall open again. He finally met his eyes.

“You think Bucky is a ghost?” he said, his voice carefully neutral.

Hearing the question directly made him hesitate. He knew that, once he admitted to this, he couldn’t excuse it away. If it became real to Sam, it had to become real for him too.

He nodded, sighing as some of the tension in his shoulders released. 

Sam studied his face for a moment before breaking his gaze, moving his eyes between the bear and the box, dumbfounded.

“I don’t get it,” he said, finally. When he met his eyes again, concern was etched deep in his features, and his eyes were wide. He looked almost sad for him. “Why do you think he’s dead?”  
The word hit him, and he almost couldn’t process it. Dead – like a word in another language, meaningless.

“He’s not,” he said quickly, meaning to say it, but the word was paralyzing, and he couldn’t finish. He left the sentence as it was. He’s not – he’s not. He couldn’t be, again.

“You don’t have a reason to think he’s dead, do you?” Sam pressed, his expression falling further. “I guess we can’t say for sure he’s alive at this exact moment, we can’t prove that but – still –“

Steve’s mind had gone strangely blank, and he struggled to follow what his friend was saying, to focus on the words.

“I didn’t say he was dead,” he said insistently, his voice frustrated with the need to argue at all. “I said he was here.”

“You’re saying he’s a ghost,” Sam said, stating it rather than posing it as a question. “Right? That’s what you’re saying? This stuff is for – communicating with ghosts?”

“I guess, yes,” he agreed, even though he still wanted to flinch at the word. “I don’t know if – it’s a presence. It’s him around me, and I don’t know what to call it if not that.”

“Okay,” Sam said, nodding once. “I’m not going to say I believe that, I don’t know if this – these tools you have – if someone is really choosing a word or if they’re just going off randomly by themselves or something. But a ghost is a dead person, Steve. That’s pretty much the definition of ghost.”

The words sink in hollowly, like a hand clawing through him and pulling everything out, leaving his chest an empty shell. He couldn’t respond to that.

“He said two words,” he insisted instead. “Two words that made perfect sense together. Right when you walked in.”

Sam frowned, glancing sourly at the box on the table.

“Okay,” he said, injecting the word with half-hearted sarcasm. “So it knows some phrases.”

“It doesn’t,” he corrected quickly. “It knows words. Single words.”

Sam glanced away, letting out an exasperated sigh. He looked defeated – above all, confused.

“Fuck,” he muttered, shaking his head slowly. “Even if you’re right, Steve. There’s nothing good about this. Nothing.”

Steve had an strange urge to argue with that. He wanted to say that if Bucky, or some part of Bucky, was here with him – that there could be nothing wrong with that. He belonged with him, and Steve would’ve done the same, found him, in whatever way he could.

Even mute and powerless, he would’ve stayed.

His gut clenched. He’d find a way to hear more. He’d figure out some way of creating a connection. He thought that if he could do that, at least that – create a clear, direct means of communicating – that everything would be okay. 

He’d fix everything else, if he could just find a way to talk to him. With him.

He wasn’t dead. Sam had said as much.

They had no proof of that.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

“So you’re saying that I’m the one making everything go off.”

Steve tried to keep the warning tone out of his voice, to sound neutral and open-minded, but it was becoming a lost cause. For the past hour, Sam had been hanging around under the guise of seeing if anything more would happen, and, he supposed, to just be there. 

Nothing had happened – the devices were quiet, the room a tolerable temperature, and Sam had filled in the gaps of silence by trying to reason through the situation.

“I’m just saying it’s possible,” he said, opening his hands over his knees. “We should consider every explanation, right?”

He bristled a little at the word ‘we’ because, although he knew Sam was trying, they really didn’t feel like they were on the same team at the moment. If anything, his friend sounded like he were very carefully trying to talk him down from a ledge.

“Yes,” he replied, a little tersely. “But I feel like that’s almost more bizarre than the obvious explanation.”

“Not really,” Sam said, a little too quickly. “It follows the same principle. If the consciousness of a ghost, or spirit, or whatever, can make it go off, who’s to say your sub-consciousness can’t do the same thing?”

“If it were my sub-conscious, I’d think I’d say things that were a little more clear,” he answered, keeping up his unyielding tone. “And more detailed. And, I’d answer myself when I asked for an explanation.”

“The mind is crazy complex,” Sam said warily, shaking his head. “You could be projecting something just ambiguous enough to make yourself believe it.”

He sighed, cradling his forehead in his hand. It was true that he couldn’t really argue against Sam’s theory with much more validity than he could fight for his own, but there were things he didn’t know. Things that Steve didn’t want to spell out for him just yet.

He didn’t want to tell him about the moments when he felt like he was being touched. Worse, when he felt like he slipped in and out of Bucky’s consciousness like sleeping and waking.

If that was just a trick his mind was playing, he was more screwed than he wanted to admit.

Sam must’ve finally noted his pained expression, because he began to gently backpeddle.

“Or, you know, it could just be – him,” he said, hesitating on the last word. “I’m just saying to keep an open mind. You’ve been under an insane amount of stress.”

Just come out and say I’m crazy, he thought bitterly, trying not to smile in irony. Give me the number of your psychiatrist and be done with it.

He can’t push him away entirely, though. He hadn’t expected Sam to jump in and join mission ghost hunt without any questions. He was here, and he was trying, and Steve had a sense that he needed to cherish the handful of friends he still had in the flesh.

“Thanks, Sam,” he said, hoping it sounded sincere. He didn’t look up, but he could hear the other man sigh deeply.

“’Course, man,” he said. A silence fell between them, and he cleared his throat before going on. “Look, Steve, I know this isn’t really something you’re going to want to hear …”

Maybe he was going to skip straight to his mental health after all, Steve thought. He looked up, resisting the urge to cross his arms as he met his friend’s eyes.

Sam, to his credit, looked nervous. Maybe even regretful.

“If we’re running with the assumption that Bucky is here,” he began carefully. “That he’s a ghost and he’s trying to communicate with you, I think you should –“

Steve waited, suddenly warmed by the thought that the other man seemed to be even considering that reality. 

“I think you should ask him where you can find his body.”

He heard the words, and they settled like wet ash in his stomach. He felt a swell of anger grow in tandem with it, swift and irrational and panicked.

“You’re bringing that up again?” he barked, and the idea of keeping his voice in check was out the window. He stood suddenly, moving from the sofa and circling around the coffee table. 

“Woah,” Sam said, putting his palms up defensively. His eyes widened, and Steve realized that this was the first time he’d ever made even the slightly threat against him. “Okay. Maybe you’re not ready to hear that yet, I get it. But isn’t that the natural conclusion to all this?”

Steve had to look away, to run his eyes along the ceiling and the upper outlines of the furniture, because he wanted to punch him. He wanted to pull him up by the collar and punch him, even as he wanted to sink down to his knees.

“You can’t say he’s dead,” he said lowly, trying to calm his breathing. “You can’t prove that.”

“Of course I can’t,” Sam replied. “And you can’t prove he’s here as a ghost but – here we are. Is there – is there another explanation? How can he be here and be alive at the same time?”

They were words that he wanted so badly not to hear that he hardly heard them. His mind was numb, vague and blank and he couldn’t think, let alone rationalize out an answer. All he knew was that it had, somehow, to be possible.

“I don’t know,” he said, finally, nearly whispering his concession.

Sam sighed again, swallowing hard. 

“I’m not trying to make this harder for you,” he began, following him with his eyes from the sofa as he paced uneasily around the living room. “I’m really not, Steve. I just want you to be prepared for that possibility.”

Steve almost laughed at that. Dim memories floated to the surface, of chugging back liquor that burned and choked him but had all the effect of bitter water, nights spent sleepless listening to the nothingness around him. To Bucky’s voice, silenced forever. 

“I can’t,” he said, his voice hoarse but quiet. “I couldn’t then, and I can’t now. You can’t be ready for it.”

Sam didn’t say anything. He shifted uncomfortably where he sat, and Steve wondered if were going to get up and clap his shoulder, hug him. Something like that. But he didn’t.

“I want to help,” he said, in the desperate tone used by people who know they’ve made something worse. “I just don’t want to see you go down a road to nowhere.”

He nodded, even though he didn’t really know what he meant by that. He still felt disoriented, even though his brief anger was already draining out of him.

“I know,” he said, and he meant it. He knew Sam was trying. He was maybe just trying a little too hard.

“Answer my damn text messages, okay?” he asked, pulling himself up off the sofa. Steve watched him, relief flooding him as he realized that this meant he was about to go.

“Yeah,” he said, knowing he’d have to if he wanted to be left alone for any length of time. “You got it.”

He walked him to the door, muddling through a good-bye that he thought was somber but still cloaked in something like gratitude.

“Take care, man,” Sam said gently, squeezing his shoulder before pulling the door behind him.

He turned around, facing the shadows of the hallway.

Alone again.


	7. Chapter 7

With Sam gone, the apartment had a different feel to it. It was still, almost eerily so, like driving down a busy road at three a.m. when all the traffic lights had switched to flashing red.

Different, but familiar. It didn’t exactly feel right, but he liked it. 

“He’s gone,” he said, walking slowly back into the living room. Then, a little playfully – “That means you can come out now.”

The room felt too bright, and on impulse, he switched off the lamps on the side tables. His apartment was never really pitch dark – he didn’t care to close the curtains, and city light always spilled in at night, pale blue-green and shifting.

It was enough that he could see the outline of the dictionary box as he settled back onto the sofa. As much as he hated to admit it to himself, Sam’s departure was an immediate relief. As much as uncertainly plagued his future, at least now he had the option to put it aside for a moment. Face it on his own terms.

He leaned his head back, closing his eyes as he sighed. 

“Maybe we’ve both had enough talking for one night,” he muttered, suddenly conscious of the weight behind his eyelids. He could sleep. Even if he didn’t really remember the dreams, it felt like they brought them closer. Weakened whatever wall it was that stood between them.

“SICK.”

His eyes fluttered open, and he raised his head just enough to catch the final half-second of the box lighting up. He jolted the rest of his body to attention, leaning toward it.

“DOUBT.”

The second word came quickly enough to startle him, immediately setting his mind racing.

“You’re sick with doubt?” he said before really thinking it through, frowning. But that didn’t make sense, for Bucky to be feeling that way, not really. He pushed himself further.

“I’m sick?” he asked. “Sam thinks I’m mentally ill and … he doubts that you exist? That you’re here with me?”

That made more sense, but he knew there could be other interpretations, and it was impossible to know which one was right. At least with the limited time he seemed to have for asking questions – Bucky faded out as quickly as he appeared.

He waited a heartbeat for a response, but nothing came. He curled his fingers into the sofa cushion, feeling utterly useless. All he seemed capable of doing was dumbly repeating back what Bucky had said, offering guesses at meanings that for all he knew were completely off the mark.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out, as if Bucky could somehow read his thoughts, know that he meant he was sorry for his incompetence. But it seemed to fit, regardless, so he went on. “I’m sorry about Sam, that he doesn’t – you know. I want you to know that even if I have no idea what I’m doing, if I’m confused, it’s not because I don’t –“

He sighed, bowing his head in the darkness.

“It’s not because I don’t have faith you’re here,” he went on, and even his apology itself seemed insufficent. “I know you are. I feel you – everywhere. It’s not just whatever you can make this thing say.”

He gestured lamely to the box.

“Okay?” he finished. It felt strange, pouring himself out when the best he could really hope for was a one word response.

Then he remembered, sitting up a little straighter – maybe he could hope for more than that. He had other tools.

He jumped up, holding his palms out briefly toward the box as if telling it to stay.

“If you’re still here,” he said, glancing around the dim room, “Please don’t go yet.”

He tore himself away, half-sprinting to the dining room to grab the digital recorder. It was one of the simplest things he’d bought, and maybe that meant it was easier for Bucky to use. It didn’t require him to make anything speak. He just had to talk naturally, on his own plane.

He walked back into the living room as quickly as he could without feeling completely absurd, taking his seat again and addressing the darkness.

“Okay,” he said, his heart already beating faster than it should. “This is just a sound recorder. I might be able to hear you talking on this even if I can’t hear you out loud, with my own ears.”

‘Might’ was the key word.

“So just talk,” he said. He wished he had better instructions, but even the Internet was silent when it came to detailed instructions meant for the ghost. “Just talk to me and, hopefully, it’ll catch something.”

He rubbed the plastic casing in his hand for a moment, sucking in a tentative breath as he started a new recording.  
“Okay,” he began, quickly realizing he had no real idea what to say. “I mean, you can say whatever you want but … I guess I’ll ask questions, too.”

He paused, letting the silence weigh heavily on him before continuing.

“How are you?” he asked. The words fell out before he could really consider them, and as he heard them spoken he realized how incredibly stupid they sounded. How would he be? Just fine, Stevie, and how’re you?

He resisted barking out a laugh, and kept talking instead.

“I’m scared,” he said, slowly. He hesitated a moment, feeling his throat tighten, staggering his breathing. “I’m scared this won’t work out. I’m scared that no one can do a damn thing to help me.”

I’m scared you’re rotting in a shallow grave somewhere, he thought, but he couldn’t say that. Even thinking it made him want to curl in on himself.

“God, I’m so selfish,” he said, and he laughed briefly as he choked out the words. “You have to be – but I hope you’re not. I hope you’re somehow not suffering.”

More stupid words. He started to realize that Bucky could’ve left before he even started the recording, if he did ever leave. It was becoming easy to see him leaving in disgust.

He dug his hands into his hair, willing himself not to cry, because that would be the ultimate form of selfishness right now.

“Just tell me what to do,” he whispered, swallowing hard once, twice. “Please tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

He waited, listening numbly to the sound of his own haggard breathing, the far-away din of the city outside.

“Okay,” he said, when he realized he couldn’t even think, let alone search for anything to say that was even remotely helpful. “Well, if you’re here, last chance. I’m going to review the recording.”

He let a suitably long moment pass, even though it felt like he was alone, going through the motions of this almost just to comfort himself.

“Good night,” he whispered, and pressed in the little button.

He set the recorder slowly back down on the coffee table, staring out for a moment into the darkness. He was tired. He was so tired, and so pathetic, and he’d turned even the simplest exercise – ask some probing questions, vet out a response, something he could use, something more substantial – into a pity party for himself.

Maybe the hour spent tensely not-arguing with Sam had drained him. It had to be in him, somewhere, to do this – to keep trying, to find a means of communicating that could work. He had to. In whatever way, Bucky was out there.

He forced himself to pick up the recorder again.

He had to review the tape.

Clumsily, he went back to the beginning of the recording, silently thanking his time spent in the new millennium for making navigating even simple modern technology that much more intuitive.

‘Okay. I mean, you can say whatever you want but … I guess I’ll ask questions, too.’

It was strange to hear his own voice. Familiar, but oddly not all that recognizable.

‘How are you?’

A long pause followed, longer than he’d remembered allowing.

‘I’m scared. I’m scared this won’t work out. I’m scared that no one can do a damn thing to help me.’

He swallowed hard as he listened to his voice. The words brought back the same twist in his stomach, the same wrung-out hollowness.

“God, I’m so selfish. You have to be – but I hope you’re not. I hope you’re somehow not suffering.’

So far, nothing. Just a bizarre re-telling of him talking to himself, spilling out his feelings like blood from a vein, messy and pointless.

“Just tell me what to do. Please tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.’

‘Go to sleep.’

‘Okay. Well, if you’re here, last chance. I’m going to –‘

He pressed down hard on the pause button, rewinding the last few seconds.

‘- and I’ll do it.’

‘Go to sleep.’

‘Okay. Well, if –‘

He wanted to say that the voice was immediately recognizable as Bucky’s. It wasn’t – it was quiet, gnarled, sounding impossibly like someone trying to yell and having it come out as a whisper. And it was sad. Slow, and defeated and sad, as if he didn’t want to say the words but had to. Made himself.

And yet, the whisper brought back memory, too much to break down into time and place – just a swell of knowing. Memory of him – of Bucky.

He rewound the recording again.

‘- do it.’

‘Go to sleep.’

‘Okay. Well –‘

And again. And again. And each time the voice sounded a little sadder, like it was pleading with him, until not obeying it almost broke his heart.

He stood up, clutching the little box like a lifeline. There was software that he could install on his computer, software that could isolate the voice and make it louder, clearer. And he would do that, but tomorrow.

He let the box slip out of his hand, falling onto the sofa cushion. The words still echoed as if being replayed.

‘Go to sleep.’

He didn’t think he could, but laying down, pulling the heavy comforter over his bare shoulders, felt like pulling arms around him.

Sleep came quickly. Not like falling, but like a blow. Like being knocked out.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

“Going to sleep?”

He turns, facing Steve as he clumsily pulls at the button on the cuff of his sleeve. He doesn’t have to look at him to know – it’s obvious enough in his voice, in the terse way he phrases the question, that he’s looking for a fight.

Seeing it in his face is almost overkill. The locked jaw, the narrowed eyes. He knows him too well. It’s almost funny, how clearly he can see it all coming.

But it isn’t, not tonight, because he’s tired. His feet and shins and thighs ache, and just to bow his head painfully stretches his neck and stiff shoulders. He got dressed in the dark that morning and now, two shifts later, it’s dark again, and all he really wants to do is fall into bed and black out, because tomorrow he’s up before dawn a second time.

“Yes,” he says, successfully freeing one wrist. He returns the dark look, because he’s exhausted and even Steve loses his charm sometimes, too self-righteous and bull-headed for his own good. Tomorrow morning he’d be back to pining over the way he drank a glass of water, brushing the stray drops off his lips with the back of his hand, but for now, he’s just damn annoying.

“It’s Saturday night,” Steve says, as if this entirely explains why he’s looking at him like he’d just slapped his mother.

“Yeah, and I’m tired as a dead dog, Stevie,” he mutters, trotting out the pet name only because he knows it gets to him when they’re pissed with each other. 

“Exactly,” Steve shoots back accusingly. He waits, pausing for effect, locking eyes with him unmercifully. “You don’t have to pick up every single shift they throw at you, you know. You can say no.”

This again. They’d had the discussion a thousand times, the tone ranging from gentle concern to Steve being so stubbornly irate over not making his half of the rent that Bucky thought he might start sleeping on the street just to prove his own point.

“I don’t have to go out every damn Saturday night,” he snaps lowly, but he knows it’s a weak case, because it hasn’t been nearly every Saturday for a while. Not every other Saturday, not even every month or two. His old routines had slowly fallen apart, and eventually, it wasn’t just Steve who would notice.

It pisses him off. Not just the need to go out dancing with women, keep up a pretense he’d once been ace in building up. It was that he’d done it so well that even Steve’d bought into it, and now evidently believed that his half-drunk evenings on the town were a fundamental element of his happiness.

That by sacrificing them, he was sacrificing too much.

It wasn’t really fair, to deliberately hide things from Steve and then resent him for not finding them out anyway. But it got to him, sometimes, how wrong he was about him.

“You don’t have to pull double shifts every weekend,” he goes on, staring him down with blue eyes that he would, in any other situation, find something pretty to say about in his head. “But you do.”

He doesn’t know what he expects. He doesn’t expect Steve to take the money gratefully, to rub his shoulders and coo over how hard he works like a housewife. He has his pride, he knows that, but when he’s this exhausted, when keeping his eyes open is in itself giving him a splitting headache, he wishes it were different. He wishes there could always be a kind of quiet appreciation, an understanding that he does what he does for them because he can’t bear to do any less.

It makes him angry. Angry enough to see stars, or maybe the pinpricks of light behind his eyes are just from exhaustion, but either way, it’s all he can feel. Anger.

“You’re right,” he snaps, barely holding back from shouting loud enough for the entire tenement to hear them. “I will go out.”

He sees Steve flinch a little at that, because usually their fights take a predictable course, where they both curse and snap and then ignore each other until one of them decides to stop being an idiot about it. Not tonight. He’s too tired tonight.

“I’m going to go out,” he says, grabbing his jacket and throwing it back over his shirt, leaving the cuff unbuttoned, “And dance with the first dame who so much as looks my way, and then the second, and the third –“

He runs a hand back through his hair, a mocking of the careful, slicked-back style he’d perfected long ago.

“And before I’m too drunk to stand I’ll find a girl pretty enough for the two of us,” he goes on, not slowing down, his voice escalating dangerously. “And if you tail out of here, I might even bring her home. You happy Steve?”

He stares at him, expecting something equally harsh back, but Steve isn’t looking at him anymore. He’s turned his head down and to the side, and when he finally looks up at him, he looks at him like he’s just said the worst thing he could ever possibly choose to say. Like he’s gutted him with the words.

But he’s too angry to see that, so he reaches out, shoves him briefly on the shoulder. His blue eyes just widen a little further, looking up at him like a trembling dog being poked with a stick.

“Well,” he presses, almost shaking himself. “You happy now? This what you wanted?”

The other boy looks paralyzed for a moment, staring back at him. He looks torn between two choices, until his brow furrows and his face takes on an expression that he recognizes immediately. It’s the look he gets when he’s about to dive into a fight he knows he can’t win.

Before he can really process what’s happening, Steve reaches out and grabs a fistful of his collar, yanking him down and forward. He pulls their mouths together.

It doesn’t feel like a kiss, not until he relaxes, letting his lips part enough to fit with his. His mind melts into it before his body, but before he can lean in, reciprocate, Steve instantly releases his collar, dropping his hand and taking several steps back.

From the short distance between them, the other boy stares. He looks terrified, terrified in a way he’s never seen in him, and for his part, he can’t move his lips for fear the lingering pressure and taste of Steve will disappear.

“Bucky,” he begins to say softly, like he’s pleading with him. “I’m sorry. I –“

He hangs his head, letting his too-long blond hair fall over his eyes.

“Are you?” he hears himself ask, mimicking the desperation in his tone. “Were you just angry?”

The thought doesn’t occur to him until he says it out loud, that maybe Steve kissed him the way he punched people, without thinking it through. And now he was going to admit it was a mistake.

It unfolds like a movie, so predictable that if he’d paid to see it, he’d demand his money back.

“Yeah,” Steve is saying, still refusing to look at him. “Yeah. I was just – I was angry.”

“That’s okay,” he hears himself say, except he feels like he might vomit and his legs are threatening to give out from underneath him, but not from exhaustion. His lips feel numb with the effort of remembering, trying to follow his mind’s order to memorize the brief touch forever. 

“It’s okay, Stevie,” he says again. He’s tired. He’s so tired.

He could go to sleep and never wake up.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

Steve slowly opened his eyes. He could tell by the brightness in the room that it was late morning, later, once again, than he ever woke up naturally.

He remembered this dream.

It was a memory. But it couldn’t have been, because he was watching himself through Bucky’s eyes, as if his friend were the camera and it was a movie that never panned away from him. His older, smaller self.

The images didn’t quite match, but the words did, every word he said, Bucky said. He could never forget that fight. He’d lost control and what should’ve been a punch to his jaw came out as something else. He’d risked everything in one rush of anger and what the dream had missed was his feeling of utter terror, the paralyzing fear that Bucky would throw him out on the street. Or, worse, keep him around and never look at him the same way again.

But he hadn’t. He’d just accepted it, his face expressionless. He remembers it not from the dream but from his own memory – the deadness in his eyes, heavy from more than lack of sleep. He could still see the curve of his shoulders in the darkness after he’d gotten into bed and turned away from him. The unnatural quiet as he pretended to sleep.

He pulled his arms in closer to himself under the sheets. He’d never forget that kiss. 

He’d been such an idiot.

He heard a sudden rattling noise, and it startled him enough that he opened his eyes fully. His phone was vibrating on the side table.

He groaned a little, reaching over to grab it. The screen was still bright, and he read the time first: 11:37 AM.

It was a text from Natasha.

‘Can I come over if I bring my Ouiji board?’

He slammed the phone back down on the table, cursing.

So much for secrets.

He slid the phone back toward him.

‘Absolutely not,’ he wrote back, stabbing the touchscreen keypad with his finger. 

Then he forced himself to move, swing his legs over the side of the bed.

Knowing Nat, she’d be there soon.


	8. Chapter 8

It was a small relief when Natasha chose to ring the buzzer rather than simply walk in. He’d never asked her how she’d let herself in the last time – it was very possible that she simply relied on her own skill set, but he also had a nagging suspicion that Fury had made a few spare keys.

Either way, he buzzed her in without a greeting, opening his front door as soon as he heard her soft footfalls stop outside it.

“Morning,” she said, walking past him. Her air of detached confidence still made him a little uneasy, no matter how many times they met up outside of work.

“What did he tell you?” Steve asked, his voice low. Her text had been glib, and he wanted her to know, immediately, how serious he was about this.

“Probably everything,” she answered, as he followed her into the living room. They hovered there, but he made no move to sit down, and neither did she. “I don’t really need to repeat it all back, do I?”

He frowned at her as she sighed, breaking the stand off and settling into his armchair.

“Sam’s theory,” she began, eying him hard until he, too, reluctantly took a seat, “Is that you’re terrified James is dead. And so you’ve created a scenario in which he conveniently both is, and never will be.”

It hurt to hear it, but he nodded after a moment’s hesitation. At least Sam had put some careful thought into the reasoning behind him losing it.

“And what’s your opinion?” he asked, wringing his hands absently. Sam’s diagnosis came from a place of love, whereas Natasha’s was bound to be a more brutal reflection of reality.

“I don’t know,” she said, surveying the room with narrowed eyes, as if the furniture could reveal all his secrets. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Fair enough,” he muttered. It was hard to look at her. Before everything had started with this, he thought he was the one out for answers. Now, it seemed like everyone in his life was prying into him for them instead.

“So he’s been talking to you,” she began, choosing the words carefully. “Reaching out. What do you think he’s trying to tell you?”

Steve sucked in a heavy breath, opening his palms to the air.

“I’m not sure,” he said, trying to muddle back through all the words he’d received and their vague interpretations. Nothing seemed to point to a definitive endpoint.

“Okay,” Natasha replied slowly. She didn’t try to hide the skepticism in her voice. “Well – can you tell me the last thing he said to you?”

He didn’t think the words so much as hear the recording play in his head. He listened, ignoring the pang that clutched at his chest, and as he prepared to say them, he laughed.

Natasha’s eyes widened, and he reminded himself that he was trying to come off as decidedly not crazy.

“Sorry,” he said, the laughter fading off into something sad and dull. “It’s just – he told me to go to bed.”

“To go to bed?” she repeated, the frown on her face deepening. He’d rarely seen her look surprised, let alone this level of confused.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, holding back the urge to laugh again. “He told me to go to sleep.”

An uneasy silence fell between them, and Steve could tell she was thinking about what to say next. Maybe what she would report back to Sam regarding his mental health.

“Why?” she said, finally, her voice losing its typical edge of eloquence.

“I don’t know,” he said, but when she raised her eyebrows at him, making it clear she would no longer accept this as an answer, he pushed himself. “I guess – I was getting a little emotional. I think it was his way of telling me to stop. To rest and not – not be upset.”

Natasha looked as if she wanted to comment on this mention of his being ‘emotional,’ but she held herself back. He was used to her keeping her thoughts to herself, but not to how much censoring she was doing for the sake of having this conversation with him.

“He hasn’t tried to tell you where he is?” she asked, her voice slightly incredulous.

She didn’t say ‘where his body is,’ he noticed. Maybe she had heard it all from Sam.

“No,“ he started, his mind glossing over the familiar dreams that were clearly memories, not new projections. “No, not really.”

“And you haven’t asked?” she pressed, leaning forward as she subtly crossed her arms.

Here it was. He’d thought for a moment that she was going to avoid the issue on Sam’s advice, but now it was being dragged out into the forefront again.

He took a moment to embrace his frustration, giving himself permission to be a little angry. It helped him stay calm.

“No,” he replied carefully, unable to keep the annoyance out of his tone. “Not directly, not yet –“

“Ahh,” she said, her brow relaxing as if she’d just been given confirmation of something she’d only guessed at a moment ago. He could almost hear her thinking the words: ‘Ahh, so Sam was right’.

He was in denial.

“Well,” she said, not waiting for his response. “If you won’t ask him, then I will.”

He gritted his teeth, but before he could lash out a response, she reached forward and picked up the dictionary device, as carelessly as if it were a cookie on a plate.

“Don’t,” he said, the word coming out in a hiss of protracted breath.

He watched as, with a flick of her thumb, the lights on the device blinked to life.

“You don’t even know what that does,” he said accusingly. It was taking all of his restraint not to lunge forward and snatch it from her hand.

“Sam told me you went shopping,” she replied coolly, tightening her grip on the little box as if she could read his mind. “I went online and familiarized myself.”

“So you planned this?” he spat, pressing his palms down hard into the sofa cushions. “You weren’t going to ask if it was even okay, to talk to him?”

The desperate edge to his voice must get to her a little bit, because she hesitated, her frown wavering before she took in a steadying breath.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, and the look in her eyes was as close to judgment as he’d ever seen. “Is he only allowed to speak through you?”

It was a low blow, but it shut him up. 

“Fine,” he said quietly. “Try.”

She held his gaze for a moment, sighing. 

“I’m here to help you,” she said, her expression softening briefly before she hardened her eyes again, turning back to address the empty space between them. “Remember that.”

And then, without hesitating any further -

“I understand you told Sam to fuck off,” she began, staring out at a space just below his ceiling fan. “Know that I won’t. I’m staying here until I get the answers I’m looking for.”

“Don’t interrogate him like he’s done something wrong,” Steve hissed. She held his gaze for several long seconds – he thought she might roll her eyes – before going on.

“Let’s get started,” she said, holding the device out in front of her. “If you know who I am, say my name.”

“He can’t, not with that,” Steve piped in immediately. “It has a built-in word database. Unless your name is part of a standard dictionary –“

“Let him talk,” she said lowly, a warning tone in her voice. “He probably can’t get in a word edgewise.”

“Just informing you,” he answered sourly. But he did decide to be quiet, for now.

They waited, both staring intently at the device. No words.

“I told you,” he said, when it seemed like he could safely speak.

“TARGET.”

They both tensed at the cold, digital voice, but Natasha’s shoulders took a half-second longer to relax. Her eyes widened, and she met his own silently, not needing to confirm out loud their mutual understanding.

Steve was about to break the silence and comment on it anyway, but – 

“HIP.”

She looked down at the device, her mouth falling open loosely. 

“Damn,” she whispered, shaking her head at the little box. After a long moment, she looked back up at him. Her expression was blank, but he could see in her eyes that some of the skepticism had fallen away.

“Okay then,” she muttered, more to herself than to him, or to Bucky. She cleared her throat a little, strengthening her voice. 

“Glad you remember me,” she said, the casualness hollow. “I know you don’t know me the way you know Steve, but I want to help him. I want to help him help you. But for that to happen, we need to know where you are.”

She paused, letting the heavy silence around them hang suspended for a moment.

No response.

“Can you tell us where to find your body?” she asked, and even though she spoke the words neutrally, they still sounded harsh and sudden to Steve’s ear. He tried not to wince internally, reminding himself that this didn’t mean his body couldn’t still be alive somewhere.

A few heartbeats passed, and Steve felt relief rush over him like a shallow wave, overtaking but soft. As much as he wanted to hear from Bucky, to cling to every word he spoke, he was glad not to receive an answer to this one question.

“NO.”

The word cut quickly into the air, so fast he almost didn’t register it. He could feel Natasha’s eyes on him, staring into him, as if she wanted him to jump in and take over.

He couldn’t. She waited a long moment before finally continuing on her own.

“Why can’t you tell us?” she asked, and for the first time he heard the tiniest echo of gentleness in her voice. It isn’t enough to make him want her here, to forgive her for wrestling his fragile control of the situation out of his hands, but it’s something.

Another long silence. He finally let his breath out when he was sure there would be nothing. That this line of questioning was over.

“INJURY.”

He blinked hard, his mind racing to find an interpretation. But before he could even process it, another word came through – 

“FEAR.”

Natasha was searching his eyes again, her expression drawn.

“Is he afraid you’ll be hurt?” she asked, softly, before he could even tie the two nouns together in his head. 

“DEATH.”

He didn’t want to hear it. He wanted to shut the device off, even though he knew he wasn’t capable of that. He had to hear every word, let them sink into him like bullets. 

But if it was true, that Bucky was out there somewhere and deliberately not telling him where he was –

His head was swimming. He dug his hands into his hair, the heels of his palms into his eyes, until black stars swam across his vision. 

“Steve,” Natasha was saying, concern overpowering her voice, but he could hardly hear her, let alone respond. What was he trying to tell him, if not that? What could possibly be more important?

“Steve.”

His breath was picking up, and he swallowed hard, trying to keep it caged inside him.

“I think I need to talk to him alone, now,” he heard himself say, his voice hollow and far away like it had been last night, when he’d listen to himself on the recording.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

Nat argued with him, of course. She asked him questions in a low voice, pulling words out of him until he could look her in the face again. Not long after that, he was able to convince her to leave.

“I know that was a lot at once,” she said, lingering at his front door. She said it with the kind of resolution that meant she felt she had only done what was necessary, but he appreciated the sentiment none the less.

“I should’ve asked him earlier,” he said, knowing it was true, but not knowing if it had really been possible, anyway. 

She nodded. For a moment, he thought she might pull him into a hug, even a very cursory hug, but she didn’t. Either they aren’t there yet, or Natasha never got there with anyone.

“I’ll talk to Sam,” she promised. 

He watched her back as she walked away down the hall, not shutting the door until her shoulders slipped around the first corner.

He turned around immediately, nearly spinning on his heels to get back to the living room. Walking into the empty space felt like walking into a fight, his body on edge but ready, craving the action. His fingers twitched with the unspent energy, and he found himself pacing in the small, open space between his furniture.

“Bucky,” he said, after letting his nerves sharpen and simmer for a moment. He picked the dictionary device up off the coffee table, needing answers too quickly to think through his options or listen patiently to a playback. “I need you to be clear with me.”

He flicked the device on, and more than ever it was possible to feel him there, as if his eyes were following his movements, reading him silently like he’d been able to long before the war.

“Do you know where you are?” he asked, putting sharp emphasis on the third word. And then, just in case he was misinterpreted – “Not here with me. I’m asking about your – your body.”

He was beginning to hate that word, neutral as it was. It had all the implications of the word ‘corpse’ – it was just easier to say.

“NO.”

He let a fraction of his breath out, his hand nearly shaking with tension as it gripped the device. It should’ve brought him some kind of relief, a new opportunity to avoid a question whose answer he didn’t want to face, but it wasn’t enough, anymore.

“Is there anything you can tell me?” he pressed, forcing the words out as if they choked him. “Something you saw. Something you heard someone say. Anything.”

He waited, the tightness in his throat spreading to his chest. Nothing.

“I know you can answer me,” he said lowly, trying to be calm, to stay calm. “I can feel that you’re still here.”

And as he said it, he realized it was true. He knew he was there the way he could tell the difference between dawn and twilight based just on the light. It required no conscious thought. He felt it in his body and he knew.

“If you did know something,” he continued, letting his vision blur a little, because he couldn’t see Bucky either way, “Would you try to tell me?”  
He blinked, feeling his heart pound deep in his chest. It was beating slowly, and he thought if he focused enough he could feel the blood itself being sucked in and pushed back out.

“NO.”

“Because you think I’ll die trying to find you,” he said, shuddering.

It felt like the dream. So much anger, and there was nothing he could do with it. Because Bucky wasn’t doing anything wrong.

“Well guess what,” he said, feeling his legs walking away with his body in long, harsh strides. He was rounding the corner into the dining room, going straight for the file, the piles of paperwork he’d accumulated researching every dead-end lead in it.

He grabbed a fistful of one of them, feeling the papers crumple satisfyingly into a ball beneath his fingers, the corners sharp and digging into his palm.

“I’ll die trying anyway,” he said, throwing the ball aside once he’d compressed it as much as possible. “You think I’ll just stop? I’ll keep going, with or without your help!”

To prove his point, he yanked out the chair in front of his laptop and opened it with enough force to snap it in two, if he chose to pull the screen back far enough.

“Give me something I can go on,” he said. He stared blankly at the screen, his breath heaving as he typed in the password. “Either that, or watch when I finally give up and just walk alone into the first suspected Hydra base I find, looking for you.”

He swallowed hard, setting the device on the table to the right of the computer.

“I won’t stop,” he said, realizing as the words slipped from him that tears were burning at the edge of his eyes. “I can’t. Please understand that. Just accept it and please, please, for the love of God, help me.”

He stared hard at the little box, hoping.

Nothing.

“Fine,” he muttered. He would start over the way he’d already done dozens of times. Picking apart every word looking for the tiniest clue. Finding patterns he analyzed over and over until he realized he’d matrixed them in his own mind. “This is my choice to make. Not yours.”

He worked until the shadows surrounding him grew long, extending over the walls until he knew it was nightfall. Then the room went black, lit only by the soft blue of his screen. He was translating every document from Russian into English again, just in case he’d made some error the first time, when he gradually realized that every time he closed his eyes, he lost a few more seconds of time.

“So tired of this,” he muttered, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes. He was reminiscing over the days when small amounts of caffeine still had an effect on him, when he heard it.

A solid footstep in the hallway. Two, three. Then nothing.

He froze, his body jolting to attention immediately, but there was something about the footfalls that did the opposite of raise alarm. They were languid, confident, a man striding in heavy boots. Not like a person sneaking around, trying not to be heard.

They were heading toward his bedroom.

Letting his mind fall blank, he stood up, leaving the laptop open to give him enough light to see. He slipped the device back into his palm before heading into the hallway.

Here, cut off from the ambient light coming in through the apartment’s windows, it was almost black. He gripped the box a little tighter, feeling awareness begin to tingle in his limbs, his eyes automatically darting around to find what he couldn’t see.

“YES.”

He jerked his arm, looking down at the brief flicker of green light as something he couldn’t place swelled in his chest. He wasn’t sure if it was trepidation, or gratitude.

It was too dark to see, but he heard the soft click of his bedroom door as it released, the gentle groan as it opened slowly toward him.

“SLEEP.”

He frowned, raising the box to look down at it, as if it could somehow give more of an explanation.

“Sleep isn’t going to solve this, Buck,” he said. His head was heavy with the lack of it, but if he obeyed every request to put this off and take care of himself, he’d never find him.

He listened to the stillness for a moment, waiting. Even though he was alone, the silence felt like a hesitation.

“DREAM.”


	9. Chapter 9

It feels like being beaten, kicked in the chest over and over until he’s choking on his own breath. It’s only as the haze in his mind begins to clear, his eyes opening to a tangible darkness, that he realizes it’s his heart.

It pounds in his chest, too hard and too fast, and he tries to calm it, suck in a deep breath, but his throat is sealed, dry and unable to expand. He coughs weakly, tries to swallow, but that only sends down a ripple of acid-like pain, no relief.

It’s the heat. It pushes in on every inch of bare skin, thick and heavy, crushing his chest. He closes his eyes, heart hammering as he breathes in what air he can. Hot air becoming hotter breath.

The longer he’s awake, the more he becomes aware, though his heart keeps his attention rooted firmly on his chest. His hair is heavy, wet, tangled around his neck and slicked down to the skin. Beads of sweat trickle down his nose and cheeks like tears.

He tries to lift his hand, clawing at the buckle around his neck. If he could release the armor – 

But his hand is still half-numb, and in the end the exertion is too much and the goal too hopeless. 

He lets it fall uselessly to his side, and he starts to concentrate on breathing in, shallow breaths as slow as he can manage. If he can keep breathing, he reasons, maybe he can keep his heart beating.

He breathes. The numbness fades slowly, feeling radiating out from his thighs in a painfully slow wave. Gradually, he can feel movement under his legs, pressed to the searing metal floor. A gentle vibration, but not a hum, exactly – a rumbling, punctuated at times by random rattling, brief sways.

A vehicle.

They’re moving him.

The heat makes his head feel heavy and empty, and he lets it loll back, jerking in time with the motion of the vehicle. His mouth hangs open as he breaths, as if this could somehow let in more air.

He must black out, because when he next wakes up, his cheek is pressed into the burning metal of the floor, and light is flooding the space around him. He clenches his eyes shut hard, the sudden change painful even though he doesn’t open them.

A rush of air hits him. It’s warm and moist, but fresh, and almost cool by comparison. He shudders as it washes over him, making his wet skin shiver.

He keeps his eyes closed as hands descend over him, pulling him forward along on the floor by his arms and back. They hoist up his dead weight to an almost standing position, and his lower legs drop off something. The edge of a truck bed, maybe. The bottoms of his feet are still half numb, but whatever’s beneath them now is uneven, and has some give. 

He takes in another slow breath. The air is thick and hot, and the safehouses are almost always climate controlled.

He’s outside.

He doesn’t know what makes him open his eyes. Maybe he’s ready for another dose of the sedative, ready for the blackness to rush in on him before he can feel every part of his body again, before his mind can really sharpen. Maybe he wants to see this piece of the world, washed over in daylight, before he passes through gate after gate of another sterile, underground lab. Maybe both.

He finds himself blinking his eyes open, his chin lifting to see. The light burns at first, and he silently winces, but then the world comes into focus in muted colors, washed out by too-bright sunshine.

It isn’t much. An expanse of dull grey concrete, cracked open by weeds. He can see buildings not far away, pale in their bleached paint, the walls marred by dark patches of graffiti. Bizarrely, the doors are blocked by sloping piles of dirt and rumble, only half-visible behind them.

He hasn’t been here before, but that doesn’t matter.

His eyes search dizzily for more, but the land stretching into the horizon is empty, punctuated only by low, scraggly trees and overgrown bush.

He tries to look to his side, but it’s a mistake. He catches a human eye.

There’s some cursing, the bodies briefly pulling away from him as they realize he’s no longer under. They manage to keep hold of his body, letting it slump only a few feet closer to the ground. He hears fumbling, the crisp snap of a case opening.

The slide of the needle is something he never quite gets used to, how foreign it feels even as it cuts through him so effortlessly, piercing his skin and slipping deep into his neck. 

But he falls into the blackness easily now, embracing it like arms reaching out to catch him.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

Steve woke up gagging, gasping. His heart was hammering in his chest, pounding forward at a break-neck pace. Automatically he reached out, grasping for anything solid, anything that could ground him.

He flung the blankets off him in the process, and immediately shuddered. The air felt like ice, and not because it was cold. It hit him like a slap because he was wet, his skin slick with sweat. The sheets were damp too, chilled except for the exact place he’d been laying, keeping them warm with his body heat.

The dream flashed through his mind in heady snapshots of awareness. Darkness, and burning metal against his face, and his throat so dry he couldn’t swallow. The thick heat, slowly suffocating him. Hands, roughly pulling him up and dragging him forward.

Painful sunlight. And then his eyes opening, adjusting, seeing –

He stumbled out of bed so quickly that he tripped over his legs, falling briefly to his knees. He got up, storming through his hallway and rounding into the living room.

He snatched the sketchbook from the bookcase, where he’d carefully tucked it away between his books. It was still untouched, the pages crisp and perfectly flat. Not at all like his originals, which had ended up yellowed and sagging by the time he filled the last few pages.

He has proper pencils for it, but not enough time to think through where he would’ve put them. He grabbed a pen from the coffee table instead.

He roughed out the building first. It was rectangular, sterile, no architecture to it – like a warehouse. He automatically squared out the doorways before remembering the rumble piled in front of them, so he has to draw the mounds over the lines, obscuring them with thatched shadows. There were other buildings, too, smaller ones nearby, but all he can manage to do is suggest them in a few quick squares.

He added the stunted trees in the background, the horizon. He paused, digging into his memory as he ran a hand back roughly through his hair. He grasped at the details even as they slipped away – the cracks in the concrete, the emptiness of the surrounding countryside. He remembered the overall idea of graffiti but couldn’t narrow it down to letters, just hazy shapes, so he represented it as best he could with abstract markings on the building’s forward-facing wall.

He stared at it as he finally let his pen slack. A picture of nowhere, of nothing, but still a picture. Still more than he had before.

“Thank you,” he breathed. 

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

“Well?” he prompted, staring at the pair of them anxiously.

Natasha handled the sketchbook carefully, staring down into it for several long seconds. A strand of hair slipped in front of her face, and she silently brushed it back behind her ear.

“I know it’s hot there,” he continued, when she said nothing. “Very hot. And humid.”

Her eyes flickered to his briefly before she passed the book to Sam, who took it like an atheist handling a Bible.

“Well,” she said, finally, when the other man also failed to comment. “That rules out some Northern climates.”

It isn’t meant to be deprecating, but his face falls a little at her careful words.

“Listen,” he said, holding his hands together in his lap and squeezing his fingers tightly. “I know it isn’t much to go on. But it’s more than I’ve managed to put together in weeks, and at least we’ll know what we’re looking for when we see it.”

She looked reluctant to answer, her frown darkening even more as she sighed.

“Exactly,” she said. “When we see it. Unfortunately, this looks like the kind of place know no one’s been looking at for a very long time.”

He bit at the inside of his bottom lip. Maybe it had been a mistake bringing them in so quickly. He could’ve waited, tried to pull more information from Bucky. But after coming up empty handed for so long –

“You say you saw this in a dream?” Sam asked, flipping the sketchbook over and pointing at the drawing.

“Excuse me,” he found himself saying, standing. This evidently startled Sam, who dropped his finger immediately. “I’m going to make some coffee, if anyone wants some.”

It was only four something in the morning, after all.

The pair watched him quietly as he headed for the doorway, and he tried as best he could not to care what they were thinking.

“Double shot of expresso,” Nat called after him.

He spun around immediately, his dramatic exit ruined.

“What makes you think I have an expresso machine?” he asked, his brow furrowing. He was too tired to look properly disgusted. “Let alone those tiny little cups?”

“Please,” she said, rolling her eyes. They were bright, but framed by purplish shadows, and a pang of guilt briefly seized his chest. “If you’re rich enough for a vintage record collection, you can at least afford an expresso machine.”

“I didn’t realize,” he said glumly. “Black coffee close enough?”

She sighed, not answering, but finally gave him a little nod to wave him off.

He had only been in the kitchen for a moment when he heard her voice, hushed, but not so low he couldn’t hear the words clearly.

“Got any other pressing questions for Steve?” she hissed. “You sound like the world’s least supportive and most transparent therapist.”

There’s a long pause, during which he imagined Sam staring at her with his mouth dropped open, blank-faced.

“You’re on board with this?” he heard, his friend’s voice incredulous. He was trying and failing, also, to remain out of earshot.

“I’ve seen evidence,” she replied lowly.

“Since when is a dream evidence of some top secret, undiscovered Hydra base?” he hissed. 

“The bottom line is that I trust Steve,” she shot back. “He’s tired and isolated but he hasn’t cracked yet. I’d know.”

“Oh, I see,” Sam snapped easily. “So this is a who-trusts-Steve-more contest then, huh? Listen, I know you guys had New York –“

“Right, yeah, the alien invasion of New York,” she said coolly, cutting him off. “Led by a crazed demigod from another realm. So much less probable than a ghost haunting some guy’s apartment.”

“There are other explanations,” Sam stammered, although there was long enough of a pause to hint that he’d struggled even to find that weak comeback.

“I remember,” she said icily. “It’s Steve’s own subconscious that’s manipulating the devices. You’re using the logic meant to prove that ghosts exist to argue that a ghost doesn’t exist. It’s a cop-out and you know it.”

Sam fell silent, and Steve continued to stare at the little red button that indicated the coffee was brewing.

“You can’t tell me he doesn’t need to see someone about this,” he said, finally, his voice slower and more thoughtful now. 

Another heady pause. Steve was sure that Natasha filled in the silence with her eyes.

“Hinting that he’s going a little crazy isn’t the way to go about that,” she said, matching his tone. 

Steve sucked in a deep breath. The coffee had been ready since ‘alien invasion of New York,’ and he tried to rouse the confidence to walk back into the room without looking achingly self-conscious.

He was turning around, ready to do just that, when he heard a sudden crash, the sound of paper crumpling and fall in on itself, and an explicit shout from Sam.

He jogged into the living room, stopping himself in the threshold of the doorway. Natasha turned around slowly to look at him, her eyes widened knowingly.

Sam was now standing, pointing down at a book lying in the middle of the floor. The spine was facing up with the cover pulled apart on either side, the pages beneath stretched open and crushed haphazardly, like a broken accordion.

“It flew at me!” Sam was half-shouting, half-saying. “It flew off the goddamn shelf at me like – like –“

Steve eyed the book’s position. He frowned. It was a good five feet away from his bookshelf.

He didn’t say anything, but walked around the sofa, approaching the book and kneeling to pick it up off the floor. The plastic slipcover rustled as he lifted it.

It was something he’d bought for himself but had never gotten to, another topic to cross off his never-ending list of things he’d missed: America's space program.

He carefully slipped the pages back into place and closed it gently. He turned around only when Natasha gently cleared her throat.

“Steve,” she said clearly, lifting her chin a little, as if she could already sense his opposition. “I think we need to bring Tony in on this.”


	10. Chapter 10

Steve swallowed, crossing his arms subconsciously over his chest.

“Tony,” he repeated. Natasha widened her eyes slightly, not breaking the gaze, and this made him dig his fingers a little harder into the flesh above his elbows.

“Yes, Steve, Tony,” she said, an edge of exasperation creeping into her tone. “It’s not exactly a reach.”

He tensed his jaw, searching for an argument. The truth was too complicated to put into words, amounting to little more than a fist of doubt and distrust in his gut. It had been hard enough to bring in Natasha and Sam, to even voice what was happening. He hadn’t even asked for their help, not directly – not for them to do anything. Just to be there, to listen. But to ask Tony Stark –

Natasha frowned, continuing on when he failed to respond.

“So far you’ve what, exactly,” she clipped. “Bought a few ghost walkie-talkies on the Internet? He has a lab and unlimited resources. Can you imagine what he could come up with, if he applied himself to this?”

It was true, he couldn’t deny that. He couldn’t argue that Stark couldn’t whip up something frighteningly over the top to talk with Bucky. The problem was his motivation. Would it just be a curiosity to him, a joke? 

It made his stomach churn the more he thought about it. All those resources – but what if he came up with something that just – went wrong? He didn’t know how Bucky was here, what gave him the strength to interact. What if Tony tried to build a bridge between them and built a wall instead?

“Gotta say,” Sam chimed in, looking uncomfortably between the pair. “It couldn’t hurt to just throw it out there. See what he says.”

“I don’t know,” he said, because he had to say something.

“Just bounce the idea off him,” Sam continued. “Him and his, you know, billions of dollars.”

“This is great, Steve,” Natasha said, pulling the sketchbook into her lap and holding it in her hands as she spoke. “He showed you something, that’s amazing. But we both know there’s a huge gap between a place you saw in a dream and – getting there. In reality.”

“What exactly do you think he can offer?” Steve snapped. He breathed slowly out through his nose, trying to resist the urge to start pacing. “You think just because it’s Tony Stark, he’ll come up with some mind-blowing invention that just – solves everything?”

“Possibly,” Sam said, half-nodding. “That’s kind of his thing.”

“He builds weapons,” Steve shot back. “That’s his ‘thing’.”

And he could hurt him, he thought. Hurt Bucky. Silence him, send him back to wherever he was, or wherever he should be.

“We should try,” Natasha said, her voice softening slightly. “We should exploit all our resources. If you don’t like his ideas, you can go home.”

His spine jolted at these words, and he frowned, his breathing picking up pace in spite of himself.

“You’re suggesting I go to New York?” he said, trying his best to hold back the alarm in his voice.

She frowned back, the slightest look of confusion passing over her features.

“I’m suggesting we,” she said, turning toward Sam subtly as she mouthed the word, “Go to New York. That would be where he has his wonder lab. Avengers Tower.”

Fuck. He hadn’t thought of that.

He let his eyes drift around the living room, the familiar furnishings that were just barely beginning to feel like a home. The idea of leaving his apartment for any length of time hadn’t occurred to him, at least not outside the vague context of going straight to wherever Bucky was ultimately leading him.

Bucky was here. Here, in this little cluster of things and space. And he didn’t know if he could follow him out into the world.

That idea, of possibly leaving him behind, brought a choking wave of anxiety up his chest and throat. It was worse than the idea of trusting Tony with something this precious. Knowing Bucky was here made him feel panicked, a constant reminder that every moment he was waiting, somehow, to be saved, and hence every moment he was letting him down. But their brief moments of connection also kept him sane.

“I’ll think about it,” he said, trying not to let his thoughts bleed into his face. All he wanted, suddenly, was for them to be gone. To be alone again.

“I’ll make a call,” Natasha offered firmly. It might’ve annoyed him, her pushiness, if he weren’t suddenly so paralyzed. “I’ll ask him, and if he says yes, you can decide then.”

Deciding later. Sounded like a great plan.

“Okay,” he said weakly. “Okay.”

It wasn’t difficult to shoo them out after that, having pretended that he was going to go along with it. Still, he felt guilty, turning down Sam’s offer for a run, seeing the hesitation in his eyes as he closed the front door.

It was a feeling he was becoming familiar with. Wanting to help, and accepting that you could only do so much.

He felt guilty, too, that it felt so good to be alone. Or, well. Relatively alone.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

He headed immediately for his bedroom, hesitating in the doorway. He looked over his bed uneasily – the sheets were tangled together and half pulled off the mattress, and still looked damp even from a distance. He realized he could push Bucky for more information, ask him outright to give whatever he could as he slept. But that would mean falling into another nightmare.

Now that the adrenaline of creating the drawing had worn off, now that he was alone and waiting again, less tangible elements of the dream were seeping into his consciousness. He had the chance now to reflect on the details, digest them from his own perspective. 

Bucky hadn’t tried to think of a way to escape. He hadn’t wondered where they were taking him, or why. He hadn’t been afraid. And that should’ve been good, it should’ve been the silver lining, except that the deadness of Bucky’s mind still hung on him, the apathy, numb except for the vaguest longing to be drugged again into unconsciousness.

He shuddered, his shoulders curling into his chest.

His heart seized briefly with a pang of guilt. He was afraid to feel that again. He didn’t have the right to even hesitate – a dream should mean nothing, even a terrifying one. He got to wake up, reacquaint himself with a better reality, make the daily little choices that built up a life. It was selfish to be afraid of something so temporary.

It was just so much more awful than he’d expected, if he’d really thought through what to expect. He’d known it would be painful, but he’d expected himself to be angry, to have his energy renewed by rage. He didn’t think it would leave him feeling like Bucky, in the dream. Empty and gutted and paralyzed.

He shook his head hard, realizing how long he’d been standing in the doorway, thinking.

He would ask again. He had to, and he would. He had no real choice in that.

His eyes darted briefly to the bathroom door.

He would ask again, but he could shower, first. His skin felt heavy and slick, covered in the grime of unwashed sweat, and forgoing showering seemed like an excellent way to get Nat and Sam less focused on finding Bucky and more focused on how he was ‘doing’.

It was sensible. But eying the doorway, he felt a second wave of restrained anxiety. The bathroom wasn’t exactly a sanctuary.

But then, Bucky seemed to move freely around the apartment, accessing every room, so in what room could he really expect not to be startled? And it was Bucky, who was just trying to reach out, not scare him.

He focused on that – it was Bucky, it was just Bucky. He slid his shirt over his head, casting it aside, wondering if he were there now, silently watching him.

This, somehow, did nothing to calm his heart, beating more rapidly by the second.

“I’m just going to take a quick shower,” he said, out loud, and that at least made him feel a little bit better, as if announcing it somehow gave him permission. “We’ll talk soon, okay?”

He slipped a thumb under the waistband of his boxers and sleep bottoms, then hesitated. After a moment, he walked into the bathroom, closing the door carefully behind him before sliding them down his legs.

Was it silly to be so self-conscious? The old Bucky had never been particularly shy about his body. He could remember him releasing his belt buckle effortlessly, not pausing his animated rambling a moment as he jerked it smoothly through every loop and doubled it into his hand. In their tiny apartment, it would’ve been ridiculous not to change in front of each other.

And this Bucky –

He paused. This Bucky? The new Bucky? He stopped thinking about it –

This Bucky could presumably wait outside. If he wanted to.

He turned the knobs of the shower slowly. He wanted it hot. Burning hot.

It was a relief to step under the spray. He was just as naked under it as he was standing outside the shower, but sliding the glass panel closed was comforting, similar in a way to closing the bathroom door.

It did feel quiet. He poured a dollop of shampoo into the palm of his hand, massaging it slowly over his scalp. By the time he rinsed it out, he felt marginally more relaxed. 

He hadn’t said to keep out, exactly. Maybe he’d been just subtle enough that Bucky had understood he wanted to be alone for a moment. Have a chance to breathe without anything tipping over, no mysterious footsteps, no chill in the air.

But he still felt more guilty than relieved. He frowned, picking up his pace as he rubbed a bar of soap quickly over his thighs. He didn’t want Bucky to think he wasn’t allowed somewhere. Couldn’t come to him, at any time, if that was what he needed to do.

He sighed, trying to push away his confusion. He bowed his head under the stream of water, letting it hit above his forehead and trickle in thick rivulets down his face. He sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm himself, and was surprised at how thick the air had become. Steam was building up behind the closed door, painting the mirror and glass shower panel a cloudy white.

He kept breathing, and the dream came back to him, falling over him like a shadow. The water on his face felt like sweat, his wet hair heavy, slicked down with it. It was too hot, and his heart was pounding, and he couldn’t take a breath –

Panic rose up in him, but it wasn’t just Bucky’s now, it was his. Bucky could’ve died then, so easily, and they hadn’t even been trying to kill him. The moment in the dream where he passed out and came back again – he could’ve blacked out and never woken up. The drugs they pumped into him, when he was weak and already half unconscious, they could kill him too. An overdose, a mistake, because no one, it was clear, was being careful with his life.

He had a horrible thought, then. It came to him like the dreams, bright and vivid and consuming – wandering the empty site Bucky had showed him until he stumbles on a stretch of dirt that looks loose and too dark, digging into it, the dirt caking painfully under his nails, pushing it back and back and away until Bucky’s jaw comes into view, his slack mouth, his eyes –

He shuddered, wrapping his arms around his knees and squeezing. The water was still coming down but he was on the shower floor now, coughing as it spilled down his face and into his open mouth. 

It wasn’t a dream, it wasn’t a memory, it wasn’t real, it wasn’t true –

He thought he’d snapped free of it but he was still shaking, trying to hold his body still and in one piece. It wasn’t true, but if it was, if Bucky was dead, the way that everyone seemed to think, then he’d find him, find his body, he’d avenge him –

He tucked his forehead in against his knees. That voice in his head didn’t sound real, didn’t sound like him. Because if Bucky was dead –

He was crying. He hadn’t felt the tears, mixed in with the water, but he felt the burn of them in his eyes, felt the shuddering in his chest slow into rhythmic, jerking attempts at breathing. He hid his head again, closing his eyes, and the darkness was comforting. It helped him forget where he was.

He cried until the water spilling over him turned cold, and there was a soft knocking at the door.

It made him stop, lift his head as he tried immediately to calm himself, force his choked little breaths into something smooth and normal. His eyes stung so much it almost hurt to open them, and he stared at the door.

It felt entirely possible that he’d imagined it. But maybe Natasha had let herself back in instead of calling. Maybe she’d had a weird sixth sense kind of feeling about his welfare.

Or, maybe –

He took in a final, tenuous breath, still hiding behind his knees even as he raised his chin.

“You can come in,” he said, his voice raw and quiet.

He waited, watching the doorknob to see it turn, see the door slowly open. But nothing happened, and after a long moment he closed his eyes again, rested his forehead against his knees as before. His breathing was calmer now, and he could think. The fresh tears that slid down his face now were silent.

Fingers brushed along his left temple, parting the strands of wet hair.

He didn’t move. He swallowed, willing himself to stay still, because if he didn’t move, maybe the spell wouldn’t be broken.

A memory came to him, warm and unbidden. Bucky running the backs of his knuckles above his cheekbone, whistling lowly under his breath. The skin is tender there, but that isn’t why he flinches.

“Damn, Stevie,” he’d said. “That’s gonna be one hell of a shiner.”

He’s so close, they could almost bump noses. And when he starts to dab at the cut on his eyebrow, he holds his chin still with his thumb and forefinger, and he doesn’t move away, his breath warm and shallow against Steve’s cheek. 

He didn’t dare move.


	11. Chapter 11

Steve emerged from the bathroom slowly, blinking at the natural light coming in from the window. His mind felt hazy, the way he remembered it did after a good cry. His chest ached, and his eyes felt heavy and swollen.

He walked to the bed, feeling remarkably numb as he laid down. He’d faced, briefly, the possibility of Bucky’s death, fallen apart at the thought of it, and now it felt like his mind had shut down. Every thought came slow and languid, as if fighting against a heavy current.

He reached over to the nightstand, slipping the digital recorder into his hand and pulling it toward his chest. He let it rest there under his hand, the little box rising and falling gently along with his breath.

He knew he’d been avoiding this. He could be using the recorder every moment, hunting Bucky’s presence constantly, and instead he’d chosen to do so only a handful of times. He knew he was afraid of the answers he could be given.

It would be so simple. Press record. ‘Are you dead? Did they kill you? Is your heart beating? Am I searching for you, or for your grave?’

Even just this thought made his chest seize with anxiety. He clutched the recorder harder in his hand. He doesn’t want to know. Not yet.

Instead, he just wanted to lose himself in the times he felt Bucky near him. He wanted to forget time and savor his presence. It was unforgivably selfish, because dead or alive, he should be searching. But instead he wanted comfort, if even for just a moment. 

He didn’t know, after all, how long Bucky could stay. If he was – people said there was another side. A light at the end of the tunnel. Heaven. And God knows he couldn’t keep Bucky out of heaven, even if it killed him to let him go.

“Are you here with me?” he asked the ceiling. He closed his eyes, as if that somehow made it easier for things to happen.

Silence. He waited another long moment, then rolled over onto his side, curling slightly in on himself as he faced the wall. It was comforting, somehow.

A low creak, from the other side of the bed. He froze, waiting as the mattress dipped slightly down.

His breath hitched, and he tried to let it out, to breath normally.

“Bucky?” he asked, his voice trembling. There was silence again, but he felt – he didn’t know how he could know, but he felt like if he turned over, they’d be face to face.

He wished he could turn over.

Instead, he stared at the bedroom wall, his indecision caving with need.

“Touch me?” he asked, and he couldn’t keep an edge of desperation from seeping into his voice.

He waited, breathing slow, his body frozen but alive with static energy. 

The brush of a hand, fleeting, against his thigh.

He released his breath, letting it tremble out of him in short bursts. His skin burned with the fresh memory of the touch, and lying there, closing his eyes, it was easy to fall back into memory. Bucky’s larger body settled against him, his small back curving into the other man’s broad chest. The way his thighs tucked just behind his, not quite touching. The way he melted into calm when Bucky wrapped his strong arm over his side, their breaths rising and falling in rhythm.

If he stayed like this, if he cleared his mind and didn’t move, it was like it was happening. 

He wanted it to last forever.

But the memory was like sand in his fist, and the harder he tried, the faster it fell away. He found, suddenly, that he needed more.

The digital recorder was still clutched in his hand. He flicked it on.

He hesitated a moment, unsure exactly of what to say, but impulsively needing a response. 

“Do you remember when we slept like this?” he asked. “Shared the same bed, sometimes?”

He left a pause to allow for a response, and then swallowing, went on.

“I miss it.”

He hadn’t meant to say that – it had just slipped out. He’d never been very good at censoring his words in front of Bucky – a fact not always for the best. He cleared his throat. 

“Bucky, do you want me to go to New York? You think it’s a good idea?” he asked. He waited a few beats, before going on. “I don’t want to – leave you, here. I don’t know if you can follow me.”

He paused, not sure if he should elaborate – but he guessed that was direct enough. He ended the recording and then, sucking in his breath, played it back.

‘Do you remember when we slept like this? Shared the same bed, sometimes? _Kept you warm_ I miss –‘

He shuddered at the voice, instantly rewinding the recording to play it again. 

‘-same bed, sometimes? _Kept you warm_ I miss-‘

He gripped the recorder tightly, tears burning at the edges of his eyes. It was his voice. It was low, and gentle, nd it even seemed to have a touch of Brooklyn accent. It sounded almost more like ‘kept yah warm’ or ‘kept’cha warm’.

He knew he had the rest of the recording, but he played once, twice, three times more. Each time made his heart ache a little harder.

“You did,” he muttered, stiffening his throat and holding back the tears.

He took in a deep breath, moving on to the rest of the audio.

‘Bucky, do you want me to go to New York? You think it’s a good idea? _No_ I don’t want-‘

A word, lower and softer than the first phrase, and quick. At first, it sounded like a ‘no,’ a fact that made his chest seize up with concern. He played it again, and this time, he swore it was ‘go’. Only the elongated ‘oh’ was clear.

He played and replayed the snippet over and over, his frustration mounting. He couldn’t tell one way or another.

“Shit,” he swore, staring daggers into the recorder. He rolled over. “Bucky, please – “

He blinked at the empty side of the bed before him. The air was empty, still. 

Bucky had gone.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- --- 

 

Natasha texted him about twenty minutes later. He was still in bed, staring at the ceiling and wracked with indecision.

‘Stark is a go. He’s sending a jet. Wheels up in 2 hours. I’ll pick you up.’

He forced himself to get up, go through the motions of packing an overnight bag. He told himself he could still back out once she showed up. But they, Sam and Nat, both seemed to think it was a good idea, and he did need help, as much as he hated to admit to himself. 

But Bucky – he didn’t know how tenuous their tie was. If he left him here, would he be waiting when he got back? Or would he sever their connection, somehow?

But he couldn’t stay in the apartment forever, living with a ghost. No matter how tempting that seemed. He could be alive. It was still – possible.

It would always be possible, until Steve held his body in his arms.

He zipped shut his bag, having thrown some of his ghost-hunting devices in with his clothes. He scanned his nightstand, looking for anything he might’ve forgotten, and his eyes settled on the framed picture of Bucky, face down.

He picked it up, Bucky’s laughing smile as beautiful and honest as ever. Seeing it made him want to smile and hold back tears at the same time.

He held it for a long moment, then, impulsively, he tucked into the bag too, zipping it shut again just as the doorbell rang.

Natasha was the picture of calm neutrality as he opened the door, a black leather bag slung over her shoulder. 

“Ready?” she asked. She looked him directly in the eyes, waiting. She knew how uncertain he was, and it was time now for a decision. 

He took in a heady breath, glancing briefly back at the apartment. 

It was a risk. But worse would be knowing he hadn’t done everything in his power to find Bucky, alive or dead. He needed to take a leap of faith.

“Ready,” he said.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to go ahead and put a dubious consent warning on the flashback in this chapter.

There was something surreal about the ride to the airport, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. The city roared on outside the tinted windows of Natasha’s Corvette, but inside, the muffled sounds contrasted eerily with the tense silence between them. Steve found himself itching to turn on the radio, but didn’t dare.

“It’s freezing in here,” he muttered. 

Nat flicked her eyes toward him, frowning.

“Should’ve brought your cardigan, Grandpa,” she murmured back lowly, returning her eyes immediately to the road.

He pushed back awkwardly into the passenger seat, hoping that his body heat would eventually warm the soft black leather. He hadn’t expected her to hold his hand through his, but a pleasant distraction would’ve been nice. A little conversation. Anything to drag his mind away from counting every mile as they sped steadily further and further away from his apartment.

Over time, silence with Natasha had gradually grown comfortable, but not today. He was aching to fast forward through the flight, through every minute that twisted his stomach and left him sick with doubt.

He clenched his jaw, staring firmly out at the traffic ahead of them, thickening steadily as they neared the airport. He tried to think as little as possible.

As the car slowed to an inevitable stop, inching along behind a Toyota Corolla whose right rear brake light had been shattered and half taped back together, he began to felt it. Her eyes drifting toward him more frequently, pulled back under the guise of casual gestures – brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, checking the mirror when they hadn’t moved in the last fifteen seconds. He caught a glimpse of her mouth, her frown a little too deep to be annoyed, her bottom lip worrying for the briefest moment under her teeth.

He swallowed, a thought occurring to him.

He’d assumed he was just reacting to Nat’s typical standoffishness, responding to her stoicism as most people would – with a quiet distance of their own. He was realizing, slowly, that she was playing off of him. Not the other way around.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

Under normal circumstances, the low whistle of appreciation Sam let off as they approached Stark’s sleek white jet would’ve made the corner of his mouth curl up in a wry half-smile. 

As it was, these were not normal circumstances, and he found himself climbing the short steps aboard with as neutral and unimpressed an expression as Natasha, giving the anonymous blonde flight attendant an unnecessarily long sidelong glare when she cheerily offered to stow his bag.

As Nat silently buckled her seatbelt across the aisle from him, he watched as Sam winked at the same attendant, grinning as he accepted an offer of champagne once they reached the proper altitude.

He sighed, settling once again into a cool leather seat that nipped back at his skin like ice. He made a mental note to ask her to adjust the temperature, once they took off and she reappeared from whatever mysterious land lay behind the red curtain she’d disappeared through.

“It’s a short flight,” Nat said suddenly, jarring him. She laid her head back against the headrest, turning toward him so that her cheek lay almost flat against it. “But still. Try to get some rest.”

It was as forthright as she would ever be in telling him that she was worried, and her words, direct, but gentle, cut through him. Here were his two closest friends, dropping their lives to support him in this, insane as it was, and he was acting like they were marching him to his execution.

He straightened his shoulders, nodding.

“You too,” he said. He strained to make the words into an apology.

Later, when the plane had stopped climbing, he pulled his bag out from underneath his seat and shoved it into the space between the window and his shoulder. It was ridiculous, because the pretty blonde would’ve gladly brought him a blanket and pillow instead, along with enough champagne to at least make him yawn, but he didn’t care.

He settled his head into a comfortable curve, thinking of the picture of Bucky, tucked carefully between layers of soft t-shirts. The drifting clouds outside merged with the soft vibrations of flight, and it wasn’t long before he’d taken Nat’s advice.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

He takes a long drag, savoring the burn in his lungs as long as he can before exhaling. The hot, itchy smoke is a sharp contrast to the fresh numbness of the winter air, and the unnaturalness of it makes the guilt thicken in his gut.

He can’t help it, though. There aren’t many drugs that can steady him, curb his anxiety, without simultaneously draining him of his self-control. He’d needed that – discipline, control – more and more lately, just the same way he’d needed a cigarette. 

He takes another drag, has it halfway down his throat when the back door of the bar slams open, startling him despite himself. He chokes, sputtering as he looks up.

“There yah are,” Steve slurs, connecting eyes with him. “I was wonderin’ where – “

The smaller boy steps forward from behind the door, and he can see immediately, as he sways and braces against it briefly before trying again, that he’s drunk. His best friend is a dry sponge thrust underwater and drunk as hell.

“Christ, Stevie,” he murmurs, lifting himself off the alley wall to stand upright.

“I was lookin’ all over’n’I -“ Steve began, taking a few steps forward. That’s all he needs to stumble, and thankfully he can step forward and duck down just in time, letting his cig drop to the ground as he catches him by the forearms.

Steve laughs. It’s big and open and beautiful, more free than he’s heard in a long time. He lifts his head, too-long blond hair falling back as he meets his eyes again.

“What happened?” he asks, gently guiding his friend over to the alley wall, where at least he can slump his shoulders against the bricks and pretend to stand on his own.

“Umm,” Steve begins. He grins lopsidedly, closing his eyes as he thinks, hard. “Tha’ girl – umm – I forget her – umm – anyway, she cut out, din’ even try’n come up with an excu – excuse or nothin’. Jus’ slipped out. Bartender felt real – real, uhh – real sorry for me. Real sorry.”

As the blond finished the story, he sighed, slouching into the wall himself. He should’ve known that girl was too nice, that her smile was a little too big. He should’ve known it wasn’t safe to slip out into the cold and try to numb himself with old vices.

“Christ,” he says again, because that’s all he can do, roll his eyes at God for keeping Stevie alone and him unable to stand it either way. He lets his eyes fall over him tenderly, so drunk his forehead presses into the brick like a pillow, and that’s when he notices.

He pauses, drawing in an icy stab of breath.

“Stevie,” he says, firmly. “Your coat.”

Steve opens his eyes hazily, the pale blue a spark of contrast against the dirty browns surrounding him. 

“My coat?” he repeats. He shrugs his thin shoulders, as if testing whether the coat is there or not. His thin suit jacket, always a little too big for him and hence a little too heavy, barely shifts.

A litany of curses slip out from under his breath, and before Steve can say anything he’s slipping out of his own coat, pulling it around his friend’s shoulders in one elegant toss of the hand. 

Now he does look like he’s drowning, and Steve frowns, his shoulders slumping under the extra weight as a puppyish, pathetic frown turns down his mouth.

“No, Bucky,” he says, and to his credit, he hardly slurs his name. “You’ll – you’ll get sick.”

He shrugs, tugging on his tie like it’s a thick winter scarf. Tries not to laugh at how ridiculous that sounds coming out of that mouth, those lungs.

“M’fine,” he mutters. “Try’n walk fast, though. It’s fuckin’ cold out here.”

He pulls Steve into a sturdy side-hug, something firm enough that he won’t be tripping over every crack between the bar and their apartment. He’s surprised – but that not surprised, really – when the smaller boy whines, dragging his feet in protest.

“What? No,” he says, shifting his weight back toward the back door. “I don’ wanna go home, Buck. It’s warm ‘nuf in there –“

He gives him a firm yank, hoping to avoid this argument, but Steve squirms stubbornly beneath his arm, his too-big coat. 

“No,” he whines, twisting free and stumbling around to slip in front of him. He steps back, feeling the rough brush of the wall between him and Steve.

“Come on,” the blond says again, keening on the last syllable. He presses closer, close enough to make his eyes widen, and fists a hand into his shirt.

That grabs his attention. He freezes, breathing thick and sluggish in the cold, and Steve takes this as his opportunity to beg.

“Come have ‘nother drink with me,” he says. He looks up at him through thick lashes, the blue in his eyes bluer somehow than the cold, and his willpower falls to its knees. Steve nods his head loosely back toward the bar.

“Have another,” he mumbles, shifting so that more of his weight is leaning on him, not just the tug of his fist. “You ain’t smilin’ yet.”

He looks down at him, the muscles beneath his skin twitching, wanting to shudder, but not from the cold. It’s a dangerous thought, dangerous but sweet – what might happen if he had another few shots when Steve was like this, half a beer away from fall down, pass out drunk, whining for his attention, pawing up his chest like a kitten.

The thought makes him hold back a groan, except he must not hold it back that well, because Steve hears it. Takes it as a groan of indignation, pouts.

He takes in a steadying breath, trying to calm his heart, keep his mind on course.

“No,” he says, firmly, ignoring Steve’s half-angry, half-miserable huff of a sigh. “You’re drunk, pal. Five sheets to the wind. I’m takin’ yah home.”

He huffs again, childishly, but Steve is pliant after that, letting himself be led down the streets with a firm arm around him, catching his weight and pulling it back up when he swears and stumbles over a rock, a manhole cover, a discarded piece of trash.

The people passing him on the street give him sympathetic glances. Some of the girls even looking at him a little admiringly, lending him soft smiles as they brush past with the little clicks of their heels. A good guy, dragging home his lightweight buddy, licking his lips so they don’t turn blue.

“Keep it up, Stevie,” he says, muttering the words almost directly into his friend’s ear. “We’re almost there. Keep walkin’.”

He says the words, and wishes they were true. They’re only a little more than halfway there when he starts to shiver. He tries to hold it back, to stiffen and still his muscles, but somehow, that only makes them break out a few seconds later in deeper convulsions.

“Buck,” Steve whispers, concerned, but he ignores him, keeps marching forward stubbornly even as the shivering seeps from his arms and down into his chest, rooting deep. He keeps walking even as Steve says his name again, whining it in that desperate, drunken, needy way that skips straight past his gut and goes right between his legs.

He keeps walking until Steve, with surprisingly forethought for how thoroughly drunk he is, stops and pushes him into another alley, against another brick wall. He goes easily, his muscles long past the point of resistance.

Even shivering uncontrollably as Steve looks up at him, frowning, sighing, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, he has the nerve to say it.

“M’fine,” he says, barely shaking out the words.

The smaller boy scoffs, leaning against him. He shucks the coat up off over his shoulders and onto his so that it covers both of them, like a makeshift blanket. Steve’s head is nearly obscured under it, just a halo of blond hair visible near the collar, his head tucked under his chin.

“Shoulda had a ‘nother drink,” he mumbles softly, dropping his forehead drunkenly onto his chest. “Wouldn’t be so cold.”

He scoffs back at that, but the comebacks are dying on his tongue, because Steve is so close that he can almost feel his chest rise and fall, can match is own breathing to it.

“Jerk,” he murmurs, instead.

“Punk,” Steve replies, although he can barely hear it. The word is muffled by the fabric of his shirt.

A few long moments settle between them, and he starts to feel his muscles relax, coaxed back into normality by the growing pocket of warmth between them. It feels a bit like keeping Steve warm in bed at home, but more poignant. His toes feel thick and numb, his nose tingling with tiny, icy pinpricks from the cold, but at his chest, where it matters, there’s warmth and there’s Steve.

He realizes gradually, as his inhales of breath lengthen and steady, that Steve may actually be falling asleep. He shifts his weight slightly, testing, and the smaller boy lets out the softest groan, his head lolling so that his cheek, rather than his forehead, falls heavily against his chest.

It makes him ache, like a part of him really is thawing. He lifts his hands under the coat, letting them settle gently around the boy, the touch just barely ghosting his skin. Hovering where he wants to hold.

He has an impulsive desire to scoop the other boy up under the knees and just carry him home, the coat still slung over the both of them, and he’s sad to realize he’s not quite strong enough for that. A block or two, maybe. But they still have a long way to go.

“Stevie,” he whispers regretfully.

The breathing against his chest is even and solid. He sighs, shifting his shoulders a bit until he hears a soft groan.

“Stevie,” he says again. He has to smile a little bit, at the ridiculousness of it all. Some of the lightness in his chest comes out in it, too. “Christ, Stevie, you’re so drunk you’re sleepin’ standing up.”

He looks down, watching as the blond slowly stirs back to life. He lifts his head weakly, his hair disheveled, his blue eyes dull with sleep and drink.

“Not that drunk,” the other boy murmurs, and he has to hold back from laughing. He feels happy, suddenly – inexplicably happy, riding a high of affection that he knows is doomed to crash.

He can’t help it. He reaches out, running the fingertips of his left hand gently down the smaller boy’s cheek until his hand cups his small jaw. Steve’s eyes widen briefly, but he still looks dazed.

“You ain’t gonna remember a thing tomorrow,” he goes on, not moving his hand. Lingering there, savoring it, while the blond’s eyes narrow and try to meet his, to understand.

Steve doesn’t say anything, just stares up, openly. He lets his hand slide to the back of his neck, brushing softly against the short hairs there.

“You gotta promise me,” he asks. Begs. “Promise me you won’t remember.”

Steve’s mouth falls open. His eyes are as dazed as ever, wide and blank and confused, but he stiffens his shoulders. Tries, determined, to look him in the eyes, and stand without swaying to the side.

He watches him as he takes in a steadying breath, his thin chest shuddering as he releases it.

“Promise,” he murmurs, lifting his chin.

He kisses him. Steve is still at first, frozen, and all he can taste is the lingering harshness of cheap whiskey. But then he moves, tilts his head, must stand on his toes to press deeper into his mouth.

The smaller boy makes a noise in the back of his throat, the moan humming through his lips, warm, so warm, where his own are still chilled. He digs his hand into the soft, concave flesh of his side, beneath his ribs but above his hipbones, and earns another.

He feels drunk now, too, stumbling into it, falling into it, blacking out into warmth and motion. But just in case, a part of his mind is still sober, still writing out apologies and stringing together lies.

Steve balls both hands into the fabric of his shirt, clutching it desperately, like he might fall if he lets go. 

The excuses won’t be necessary. He won’t remember. But he, breaking away to breath, the air an icy stab to his chest –

He won’t forget.


	13. Chapter 13

He woke up slowly, groaning a little in the back of his throat at the kink he’d developed in his neck from sleeping against his bag. He took in a shallow breath through his nose, opened his eyes –

Sam and Nat were there, crammed into the small aisle in front of his seat. The other man let out a long sigh of relief, while she only took a stiff breath in, suddenly releasing a delicate hold on his wrist. She was kneeling in front of him, her eyes hard and searching. Behind them, he watched as the blonde attendant slowly set a phone back into its cradle against the wall.

“What - ?” he began to ask, his mind still cloudy with sleep. Nat stood, edging out into the main aisle of the plane, where she was no longer crowding his personal space. Sam followed her, but only to take the seat next to him.

They continued to stare at him, and he frowned back at them in confusion, sitting up stiffly, as if proper posture could make him appear more normal.

“You were dreaming,” Sam said, simply. His voice was low, uncharacteristically stoic.

Nat said nothing, only slowly crossed her arms in front of her chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He blinked, resisting the urge to shake his head, shrug off his sleepiness physically. “Did I – was I talking in my sleep or something?”

“Kind of mumbling, yeah,” Sam continued. His expression didn’t change. “Couldn’t really make out a lot of it. At one point you said ‘I’m fine’ a few times, but you were shaking.”

“Okay,” he replied, digging through his mind for the shadows of the dream, before it slipped away for good. He didn’t think he remembered that part, whatever Sam was describing.

Both of them continued to watch him, waiting, he guessed, for an explanation – but why? He’d had a dream. A vivid dream. He’d talked a little in his sleep. That was normal, wasn’t it?

“Am I missing something here?” he asked, finally, breaking at the silence.

Nat turned toward Sam, as if prompting him to go on.

“It got a little weird,” he said. “I went over and, uhh. I tried to wake you up.”

“And?” Steve questioned. None of this was sounding weird enough to warrant waking up to Nat kneeling at his feet, staring up at him like he’d come back from the dead.

“I couldn’t,” Sam finished. He clenched his hands awkwardly in his lap, and Steve realized for the first time how profoundly uncomfortable he looked, harried and incredibly confused himself.

“What do you mean you couldn’t?” he asked, a little tersely, because the way the two of them were acting was seeming more and more unnecessarily over the top. “You obviously just did.”

Sam’s frown deepened. He looked toward Nat, who just looked away after a moment, her eyes wide and blank. She took her seat again across the aisle, and Sam leaned toward him, lowering his voice. Steve realized the flight attendant had disappeared, compounding the tense silence.

“I couldn’t,” he said again, emphasizing the word. “I touched your shoulder, you know. Said your name. Then I shook it. Shook it harder.”

“So I was really out cold,” he ventured, and Sam’s stare hardened.

“You just kept talking,” he went on. “Murmuring, whatever. Something about being drunk. I kept shaking you harder and harder and then Nat came over.”

He swallowed. Sam was completely serious, and obviously trying to press this on him, make him understand. The slow realization of what he was saying made his heart beat a little faster.

“You don’t get it,” he said, bending further toward him, tilting his head to look him directly in the face. “She slapped you. She slapped you hard. Like three fucking times, man.”

Steve wasn’t sure what to say. He nodded, shallowly, and as much as he believed him, it was hard to imagine this playing out. That Sam wasn’t really just exaggerating.

“And then you got quiet. Nat started monitoring your pulse. You were like, gasping, like you couldn’t breath right. The flight attendant asked if we needed an emergency landing, she was going to notify the pilot –“

“And I just woke up?” he asked. He felt chilled, felt himself shiver deep under his skin.

“Yeah,” Sam finished. “Like it was nothing. Like you’d just dozed off.”

He still couldn’t find any words. He averted his eyes, watching the clouds drift by outside the window as he licked his lips.

“I don’t remember any of that,” he said quietly. It was impossible not to let a little guilt seep into his tone.

“Do you remember what you were dreaming about?” Sam prompted. His voice was lower now, gentle, as if he regretted how directly he’d explained what went on.

Steve opened his mind to the question. He remembered walking. Holding someone, warmth. Looking down at them, blond hair, watching as they slept, careful to keep his breath shallow, to not wake them.

“No,” he said, furrowing his eyebrows. He remembered the taste of whiskey, and cigarettes, though he’d never smoked.

“Okay,” Sam said. He sounded a little disappointed, suspicious, even. But Steve was grateful he was willing to let it go.

“Natasha was really freaked out,” the other man offered, after a long silence had fallen between them. This prompted Steve’s eyes to glance over toward her where she sat stiffly in her seat, staring out through the window. He couldn’t see her expression. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, again, though this time he had some notion of what he was apologizing for. He could go over there, settle into the seat next to hers and say it where she could hear him, but something held him back. She would give him an opportunity when she was ready for it.

“Just glad you’re all right,” Sam replied. 

Steve tried to smile at him, but couldn’t. Somehow he knew Sam didn’t believe that, any more than he did. Things were anything but right.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

Pepper met them in the lobby of Stark Tower. He let her pull him into a courteous hug, brief but warm. It embarrassed him – he didn’t really feel he knew her that well, yet – but it was welcoming none the less. She blissfully didn’t mention the reasons he had for coming there.

“Your rooms are all on the thirty-sixth floor,” she said, handing out cards as she accompanied them into the elevator. “Please don’t hesitate to let myself or JARVIS know if there’s anything you need.”

“Thank you,” Nat offered. Pepper nodded to her, and the two exchanged knowing, but restrained, smiles.

“Tony is expecting you around three this afternoon,” she said. Steve realized she had directed this information to him, and he nodded, trying to match her smile with one of his own. “That gives you a few hours to settle in.”

“Great,” he said. “Thank you. Again.”

Pepper nodded as the elevator door opened silently in front of them.

“I’ll see you all at dinner,” she said warmly. She held her smile, distant but still sincere, as the three of them stepped off, and the door closed slowly in front of her.

They began the short walk down the hallway to their various apartments, and Steve ran his thumb obsessively over the slick plastic of his card, wanting to say something to Natasha. She’d been silent since disembarking the plane, avoiding his gaze to glance out the window, occasionally check her phone. Anything but look at him.

He wanted to thank her, to reassure her, to apologize all at once, and yet that didn’t seem possible. At least, not now.

“You think we got bottles of champagne waiting for us?” Sam said cheerfully, breaking the silence. He breathed out, relieved. Sam, more than anyone he’d ever met, always seemed to know the perfect thing to say in awkward situations.

“Last time I got a chilled bottle of vodka,” Nat replied effortlessly. She stopped, having evidently found her door. “Stark knows what I like.”

Sam grinned, and together they watched as she disappeared through her door, pausing to look over her shoulder. 

“Don’t trash the place, boys,” she said. “We’re guests.”

The door slipped shut with a heavy click, and Sam chuckled, though it died out into something sadder than a laugh.

They kept walking, bags swinging at their sides.

“She isn’t angry,” Sam said, suddenly, as Steve found his own room. “She’s just –“

“I know,” Steve said. He unlocked the door, opening it into a wide expanse of sleek white and stainless steel. 

He stepped over the threshold, turning back to see Sam still standing there.

“See you in a few hours,” he said, holding the door, waiting, but his friend only awkwardly shifted his weight.

“You sure you don’t want me to –“ Sam ventured hesitantly, his voice trailing off.

What? Steve’s mind supplied. Babysit you?

“I’m fine,” he said, carefully, but firmly. Sam sighed, digging his foot into the carpet of the hallway.

“That dream,” he said, slowly. “It was like something – took you over. Took you over and when it was ready, let you go.”

He stiffened at the choice of the word ‘it,’ but decided now was not exactly the time for that argument.

“I know you’re concerned,” Steve said. He was vomiting bullshit, and he knew it, but he didn’t know quite else what to say, other than point-blank ‘I need to be alone’. “That’s why we’re here. To figure this out.”

Sam sighed again, deeper, and shook his head.

“You ever wonder,” he began, carefully, “If he could just, take over your mind like that, if he could do it when you’re awake?”

His shoulders stiffened at that, his stomach tightening. He hadn’t thought of that, hadn’t really had time to consider the implications of what Sam and Nat told him happened when he thought he was just sleeping. Maybe it still didn’t feel real enough yet, since it was something he’d hadn’t seen for himself.

“Sam,” he said again, trying to make his voice as confident as he could. “I’m fine.”

“I met the guy, you know,” Sam said lowly. His voice shifted, worry and doubt merging with something darker.

Steve bit back a response, anger curling in his gut at the implications of what he was saying. He’d met an assassin, a cold-blooded murderer, a weapon, a threat - 

“You haven’t met Bucky,” he said, coldly. He didn’t mean for the words to come out as sharp as they did.

Sam pursed his lips, eyes still challenging him.

“How do you know he – this –“ he said, gesturing vaguely into the air, “Isn’t –“

“Isn’t the Winter Soldier?” Steve finished for him, cutting him off. Pieces of the dream flooded back to him, strong arms around someone smaller. He thought he knew who that someone was, even with his face hidden against the white fabric of the man’s shirt. “He isn’t.”

“Steve, you can’t know –“

“He isn’t,” he said, insistently. 

Sam continued to stare him down, and Steve could tell he was thinking, working out the probability of his being irrational about this, how he could get through to him with a minimal amount of conflict. He was eerily good at that, at making him face reality.

He sighed, wishing he could share the dream, share how protected, how relieved he felt when he realized Bucky was there, from comforted he felt just hearing the raspy, soft recordings of his voice. Offer it all up as proof.

“The dreams, Sam, they aren’t nightmares,” he began, struggling to put a voice to the emotion rising up in him. “They’re aren’t threatening, they’re – I don’t know. I don’t even remember them, mostly. But when they’re over, I feel like I could just go to sleep again, and never wake up.”

It was the wrong thing to say, he knew, as soon as he said it, the worst thing he could say in the wake of what he’d just put him through, put Nat through. Sam stiffened, almost as if he’d taken a blow. He looked down.

“I’m across the hall if you need me,” he said. He looked up at him, deliberately, letting him see that he wanted to say more. Steve just nodded.

“I know,” he said. He let the door close, separating them, and sighed deeply before turning toward his empty room.


	14. Chapter 14

The room was as depressing as he’d imagined it would be, at least judged according to his standards. It was sleek and modern and anonymous, nothing at all like the warm wood tones of the apartment he’d left behind. 

It was hard, though, not to feel a certain lightness in his chest as he set his bag down on the foot of the bed. Even now, the skin of his arms felt chilled, goosebumps rising in streaks. Bucky was here. Bucky had followed him.

He pulled out the framed picture first. It was still, of course, but as he stared down at it the brief film clip played in his mind, looping his silent laugh over and over. He looked so happy in that moment, so open and carefree. 

What was ironic was that it had never really been like that. More often than not Bucky came home exhausted and collapsed on the closest piece of furniture, with barely enough energy to lift the corner of his mouth, let alone laugh. Those were good days, normal days. Some days they fought, refused to meet each other’s eyes even as they silently split dinner. And between those were days when Bucky stared out the window into the brick wall that faced it, eyes heavy, lost in the want of things Steve couldn’t identify.

He rubbed his thumb against the cool glass. It was a good smile, but rarer the more he thought on it. He set the photo on the nightstand.

He pulled out the gadgets next. He was getting fond of them, he realized. He liked feeling the smooth weight of the recorder in his palm the way he’d once loved worn sticks of charcoal, the coarse weight of heavy paper.

He set the rest of the bag and its contents aside, pushing it to the floor in favor of climbing onto the bed himself. It was soft, excessively soft, sagging around the weight of his knees, and as he flipped onto his back, he knew he wouldn’t be getting a good night’s sleep.

He closed his eyes, breathing out meaningfully. The feeling came back to him, the little rush of elation at knowing Bucky was nearby. Part of him wanted to push it back down – the part of him still wincing at his accidental, but harsh dismissal of Sam – but it was becoming too uncommon a feeling to let pass.

He gripped the recorder in his fist, resting loosely near his heart. He nudged the button.

“Bucky,” he breathed. He drew the air in back through his nose, as if he could draw him in too, bring him closer. “I’m glad … I’m glad you’re here.”

He paused a few long moments, partly because he didn’t know what to say, and partly to savor the feeling, at least for now - the briefest sense of peace.

“I was worried you wouldn’t be,” he went on. Indecision plagued his words. He wanted to find the right ones. “I was afraid to leave.”

That word nudged something in his mind. Fear. He realized he’d been living in a constant state of it. Fear that something would happen, fear that nothing would. Fear that he was going crazy, fear that he was right.

“I’m not afraid anymore,” he said, suddenly. It was a lie, he knew, as soon as it left his lips. He was afraid. He was afraid Bucky was dead, rotting in a shallow grave as they spoke. He was afraid he’d never find him.

But he wasn’t afraid, anymore, of this Bucky, and what he could do to him.

That was new, at least.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he repeated. “But Sam –“

He hesitated. He wasn’t sure where he meant to go with that. And, if he kept talking, he’d never get through his re-play of the recording.

He rewound it, focusing on the strange but familiar echo of his own voice.

‘Bucky. I’m glad – I’m glad you’re here.’

A long pause, and then, low, so quiet he could barely make out the words –

‘Never left New York.’

He paused the recorder. His heart seized in his chest, making his breath shake weakly out of his open mouth. It was him. He’d known he was here, but hearing his voice – every time, it was like he rose again from the dead, like he was just behind his shoulder and about to throw an arm around him.

He shivered, resisting the urge to rewind the recording and listen again, and again, and again. There was more.

‘- worried you wouldn’t be. I was afraid to leave. I’m not afraid –‘

He let it play until the recording cut off, but there was nothing else. He frowned, clutching the recorder hard in his fist before deciding it wasn’t enough.

“You scared them,” he said, the words slipping from him as soon as he pressed the button down again. Evidently, he was starting to remember the person he was when he was around Bucky. Honest, to a fault. “Sam and Nat. I know you didn’t mean to –“

He paused, searching for the right words. He didn’t want Bucky to get the wrong idea.

He didn’t want him to _stop_.

“Maybe,” he said, slowly, “From now on, I should just dream when I’m alone.”

He waited a few beats, hoping a response was being forged in the silence.

“Is that okay?” he finished, hesitantly. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in, waiting another few seconds before ending the recording again.

He rewound it quickly.

‘- and Nat. I know you didn’t mean to. Maybe, from now on, I should just –‘

‘- I wasn’t _finished_ –‘

‘- just dream when I’m –‘

He stopped the recording, rewound it, played it again several times until he thought the words were clear. They were gnarled, superimposed over his own clear voice, but the last word was drawn out despite that, emphasized.

‘I wasn’t _finished_.’

He furrowed his eyebrows, frowning up into the ceiling. He hadn’t thought of that. He’d assumed the dream had just ended naturally – especially since he couldn’t exactly recall what it had ended with. But maybe Bucky hadn’t let his body go sooner because he was rushing to tell him something. Maybe he’d given up when it was clear how much his friends were starting to panic.

He pressed record again, almost desperately. 

“I didn’t,” he started, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry.”

He waited, and then, hopefully –

“How did it end?” he asked.

He waited a few seconds. They felt like an eternity in the stillness of the room, even though, when he played them back on the recording, they flew by effortlessly.

It was a stupid question to ask, when he couldn’t remember how the dream had even started.

He rewound the recording.

‘How did it end?’ his voice asked. Repeated in the dead air, it somehow sounded even needier.

A long silence. So long, he nearly cut off the recording and missed it. Low, and dark, and soft.

‘Same as always.’

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

He thought about it. He thought about it for a long time afterwards, giving up and letting the stillness of the room settle over him like a damp blanket. He turned it around in his mind, thinking, but of course there was no way he could make it make sense.

It unsettled him. There was nothing in their shared history, nothing Steve could describe as the ‘same as always,’ that would make the words come out as pained as they were on the recording.

He thought about it until his head ached and he rolled it restlessly into the horrible marshmallow softness of the pillow. Maybe it was the bed, or exhaustion, or muscle memory from just lying on a bed in itself, but sleep clawed at his eyes, and he let himself sink into it, drifting hazily into a world of not thinking anymore.

He was almost out when he heard it, tugging just barely at the edge of his consciousness. A noise.

He listened. It was muffled at first, the sound softened in his head by a haze of confusion, but then it sharpened. A faint, slow scratch, eerie and high pitched.

The muscles in his arms and legs stiffened as he woke up, listened harder. A high pitched drag, slow but steady –

His mind narrowed in on it. Metal, dragging slowly against glass.

He tried to relax, but he found he couldn’t breath, couldn’t move, didn’t want to. He could turn toward the noise, open his eyes, look, but he didn’t want to see, even as he heard the noise slowly, slowly continue, a harsh, keen scraping close to the bed, not far from his face –

Something crashed next to him, and he jerked in on himself, curling and jumping away from the noise even as he opened his eyes.

He pulled himself up on his elbows, looking at the nightstand. Bucky’s picture was there where he’d set it not long ago, angled toward the bed, but the nightstand seemed oddly empty.

He lifted himself up further, looking over and past it.

The lamp. It was the lamp, pushed slowly from the center of the nightstand until it had toppled over the edge, the gleaming metal base tangled with its black cord, the lightbulb shattered.

“Bucky,” he breathed, half-horrified, half horribly confused. He lifted his eyes up to the rest of the room, but of course, there was nothing.

He wanted to stay in the bed. He wanted to pull the covers over his head and make his world dark and quiet. He wanted to sleep, and kill time, and breath again.

He wanted those things, but he found himself slowly sitting up instead, setting his feet gingerly on the floor.

“Okay,” he said. He waited, and he realized he wasn’t sure if it he meant the word for Bucky, or for himself. “What do you want me to do?”

He clutched the comforter in his fists, willing himself to be calm. He listened.

Several footsteps. Heavy, distinct, walking slowly toward the door.

He stood to follow.


	15. Chapter 15

Steve curled his hand around the door handle, pulling it down slowly. He opened the door as quietly as possible, leaning out into the hallway. He kept his back straight, his expression neutral – if anyone saw him, he didn’t want to look like he was sneaking around.

He looked both ways down the hallway. No one. He stepped out, still holding the door open behind him.

He waited. A moment passed, and he heard them again – heavy footfalls, this time moving down the hall. Solid and unmistakable.

He let the door handle slip from his grip, half-hearing the soft click of the door as it shut behind him. 

Part of him knew he should be apprehensive, anxious about where Bucky was taking him and why, but another part was calm. Unthinking, even. It was a relief to follow, after so many moments of paralyzed indecision. He felt like a paper boat being tugged along on a string, one that, left to float on its own, would slowly sink down into the water and break apart.

The footsteps didn’t go far, essentially retracing his steps from his arrival a short time ago. They ended in front of the elevator. He stared at the stainless steel doors, wondering numbly. He hesitated – was he supposed to take it down into the city?

He opened his lips to ask, then cursed himself. He hadn’t brought any type of communication device, so how was he supposed to get a response? He lowered his head, thinking. He could walk back to the room –

A bright chime sounded. He glanced up immediately. Next to the doors were two triangles, one pointing up, one down. The top one was lighted. He was going up.

He furrowed his brow because, even though these were his only two options, he had only considered one. It didn’t make sense –

But the doors were sliding open. In the mirrored walls enclosing the elevator, he saw his reflection, staring blankly out into the small space and back at himself.

He took in a small, shuddering breath, crossing the threshold. Inside, he turned around to watch the doors slide smoothly shut again.

He glanced up, as if he could somehow see through the ceiling and have a glimpse at his destination. He awkwardly realized that he didn’t have much of a comfort level established with elevators. He’d been recently jumped in one, shared an ominous conversation with Nick Fury, and prior to that – well, there wasn’t all that much prior to that. Their old tenement in Brooklyn had stairs. Lots of stairs.

He tried to avoid his own gaze in the mirrors surrounding him. Was that why he was so uncomfortable? Bad memories in elevators?

He waited a moment, gradually realizing that he evidently needed to press a button. He surveyed them, numbering the floors and neatly lined up in rows. At the top was some kind of official-looking keypad, accompanied by a small screen.

He reached out his hand, letting it hover in front of him as he hesitated. 

“Bucky, I’m going to need some kind of –“ he began, cutting himself off when a ring of light appeared around one of the buttons. One of the highest floors.

The screen above the buttons flashed to life in bright white, harsh, block red letters appearing. 

“PLEASE VERI-“

The voice, clearly digital, surrounded him in the small space, making him jerk unexpectedly. But then, just as quickly, it cut off and was gone. He watched the small screen instantly flicker to black.

He tensed, waiting, then sucked in a breath as his stomach sunk. The elevator was moving. Going up.

He licked up lips, distracting himself by watching the numbers increase, quickly, but at a maddeningly even pace. They neared the top, and his stomach clenched again as the elevator slowed.

Another bright chime. He swallowed as the doors slid open in front of him.

He stepped over the threshold, relieved to be standing on a stationary floor. Across from him was another set of doors. They looked similar to the elevator, shining stainless steel, and clearly designed to part in the middle and open across. Instead of buttons to call up for going up and down, however, there was another official-looking security keypad, this one larger.

Had he been here? He stepped forward, examining it as if it might include some sort of convenient label.

Another voice surrounded him, loud and familiar, but too calm and even to be human.

“Captain Rogers –“

“JARVIS,” he said, surprised. But he shouldn’t have been. Of course JARVIS would be here, ever present and helpful. 

“Mr. Stark is not expect-“

His voice was cut off, snapping in mid-silence like the drone in the elevator. The silence that followed was jarring, and he found his eyes wandering the empty area, as if whatever had silenced JARVIS would pounce on him next.

Instead there was a loud, frazzled static noise. His eyes darted to the source immediately – the keypad and screen. It sprang to life, glowing white, then cut out, then on, scrolling broken lines of white and black and gray before finally dying.

He knew what would happen next, but it stilled his breath regardless as the door slid silently open before him.

There was another set of sliding doors in front of him, but these and the walls connecting to them were clear. The view beyond them was stunning – a vast space, likely encompassing the whole floor, with polished white floors, choked with stainless steel tables and innumerable machine set ups, a few screens glowing transparent in the air.

A lab. And near the center, grouped around their own table, a small gathering of people.

He stepped forward, the clear doors opening silently to let him pass, then sliding shut as he moved beyond them. They were partly obscured by the equipment, and still somewhat far off, but a quick glance confirmed it. Four people, all easily recognizable.

Nat and Sam. Tony and Pepper.

They were stiff, sipping coffee. Pepper had positioned herself between Tony and his two friends, as if she were a mediator. Nat had crossed her arms in front of her chest, letting her eyes drift in a way he knew meant her mind was currently elsewhere, but could be snapped back into focus instantly. Sam looked exhausted, leaning his weight into his elbows where they were propped up on the table, as if he might lay his head down at any moment and fall asleep on his arms.

Tony looked vaguely annoyed, as if someone had woken him from a scheduled nap. 

But why were they here? It wasn’t anywhere near time for their meet-up.

They hadn’t noticed him. The lab was massive, and he’d barely stepped into it. He found himself drifting behind a conveniently bulky piece of machinery, not hiding, exactly, but certainly not making himself obvious.

He could listen from this distance, he knew. The serum hadn’t neglected his hearing.

“Tell me again how we’ve ruled out psychological,” Tony said, suddenly. Instantly, Nat’s head whipped to face him, and Sam sighed wearily.

“Tony,” Pepper said warningly.

“I should be with you,” Sam replied. “I should be with you one hundred perfect. But it’s something more than that. No matter how messed up you are, stuff just doesn’t start levitating around you.”

His heart seized on the words ‘messed up’. Was he? Bitterly, he realized – especially after what had happened on the plane – that he was probably long past projecting an illusion of being fully in control. But ‘messed up’?

“His childhood best friend comes back from the dead,” Tony went on, “Shoots him three times, might be dead, might be lurking out there somewhere waiting for another chance to murder him, but yeah, Cap’s good. Obviously it’s a ghost.”

His worry shifted to anger instantly. How could he talk about Bucky like that, like he was a character from some overly dramatic fiction novel, some story, some villain? He clenched his fist in his hand, relaxing and tensing the muscles of his fingers to stay calm.

“Again,” Sam interjected calmly. “It threw a book at me.”

‘It’. Some of his anger flowed toward Sam, like a river forking. He tried to hold it back. He wasn’t careful with his language, he was intimidated, but he at least knew what Bucky meant to him.

“I still say we revisit this after a good six months of very intensive therapy,” Tony replied flippantly. 

Well, Steve thought, at least Nat and Sam couldn’t say he had refused to come. In his mind, he was already packing his bag, imagining, in fact, the way he’d angrily throw everything into it and swing it onto his shoulder, because there was no way in hell –

“So an alien invasion is par for the course, but life after death is ridiculous,” Sam snapped back.

Well, at least Sam was finally on his side. That could be the one bright side of coming here.

“Life after death?” Tony repeated, tasting the words bitterly. “Are we going to start debating the existence of heaven now? Or – God forbid – God?”

He laughed at his own joke, and Steve tensed. Maybe it wasn’t enough to just sneak back to his room and hail a cab to the airport. Maybe he had a score to settle here, first.

“You offered your help,” Natasha reminded him curtly. Her interjection seemed to sober him, and Tony turned his attention to her.

“I said I could, theoretically, invent some kind of technology that could, theoretically, communicate with a ghost, assuming that – “ he started.

“Yeah, yeah, your skepticism is duly noted,” Sam chimed in.

“- I didn’t say I didn’t think there was a little ‘folie a deux’ going on here,” he finished, narrowing his eyes pointedly at the pair.

“You may not even need the ghost,” Nat offered, her voice quiet but deliberate. “You might only need to get into Steve’s head.”

Both men, and Pepper, frowned in confusion. She looked pointedly down at Sam.

“He saw the place where they have him,” she reminded him. “If you could somehow access that memory, that image – translate it into something tangible, that could be analyzed, searched –“

“He saw the place where they’re holding him?” Tony repeated incredulously. “Him? The ghost? The person we’re assuming is, by logical extension, dead?”

A heady silence fell over Sam and Nat, the latter tightening the hold of her arms against her chest.

“Steve hasn’t reached that conclusion,” she finally admitted. Her voice was tentative, regretful – almost as if she knew somehow that he was listening. “But that does seem to be the only one to draw. Yes.”

Sam lowered his head soberly, and Steve struggled to even out his breathing. Keep it low and quiet.

“So this is a rescue mission for a dead man,” Tony confirmed, the incredulous frown on his face uglier than ever.

An even more impenetrable silence fell over the group, and in it, Steve’s mind still clung to the vague satisfaction of leaving. Though, he could no longer imagine throwing together his things in a fit of anger – his arms felt heavy, his breathing deep, his thoughts slow. He leaned back, settling some of his weight against the towering piece of equipment that still half-hid him.

“It could give him a sense of closure,” Sam said slowly, after several long, tenuous moments had passed. “Bringing back his body. If we could do that for him. He didn’t have that, the first time.”

He needed to leave. He needed to leave now, not out of anger, not to prove a point, he just needed to _go_. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breath. Air shuddered in and out of him, but nothing sunk in.

“He might not be dead,” Pepper offered, quietly, her words deliberate but calm.

Steve took in a breath, his eyes widening. But even he didn’t hear hope in the words, really. All he felt was empty surprise.

“Really?” Tony hissed, disgusted, but also a shade curious. “And here I thought we were finally circling back to reality –“

Pepper shot him a hard glare, and his voice withered quickly into silence.

“It’s just a possibility,” she went on, “But if we’re considering _ghosts_ –“

She looked between Nat and Sam, apparently seeking some kind of affirmation, or at least confirming their attention. Nat’s face, previously hard with practiced calm, softened into intrigue, and Sam’s determined frown faltered.

“You said they kept him in some kind of cryostasis, am I right?” she asked, directing her question to Nat. When she nodded, she in turn continued. “So then – why not something like astral projection?”

Sam’s mouth fell open slightly, and Steve braced himself, because Tony looked exasperated, and close to speaking again.

“Let’s say it’s possible,” she explained. “You can enter a deep trance and psychically travel elsewhere. If his body is, in essence, inactive –“

“He could leave it for long periods,” Nat finished slowly. “Without being physically dead.”

“Possibly,” Pepper replied. Sam was still staring at her, apparently too shell shocked for the moment to properly respond.

Tony sighed. 

“Et tu, Pepper?” he said, earning another reprimanding glare.

Steve wanted to jump in. He wanted to cut into their conversation with a resounding _yes, thank you_. He could feel the words forming in his throat, feel his lungs expand with the effort needed to say them, but he –

There was something wrong. He looked down at his hands, held them in front of his face, palms up. They were cold. Ice was crawling up from his fingertips, a bitter cold that sunk through his flesh and cut into the small bones of his hands, transforming them into brittle twigs. It was clawing its way up toward his wrists, and in its wake a thousand pinpricks, stabbing into the skin from every angle –

And he couldn’t breathe. He wanted to breathe, he wanted to take in just one last breath, just one just enough to give him the strength to –

He lifted his hands, turned them, stretched his palms toward the door. He could see it, the window, the figures shifting outside in their white coats. He could break it, push it open, he was strong, but the pain in his flesh hand had already made it halfway through his palm and the fingers were numb, he couldn’t feel them –

He could see them, but when he tried to move them, nothing, not even a twitch and the frost on metal was building, too, curling in thick swirls around the joints. It was happening too quickly but even if he couldn’t feel his hands, if he could just _push_ \- 

But his lips were tingling, and he was breathing it in, the chemicals freezing on his tongue and teeth and down his throat, building up on his eyelashes, burning just inside his nose and soon they would be deep in his lungs, a thousand dancing stabs of pain creeping down his chest before it all went – 

Steve forced his hands to move, and they shot out, shoving hard against the table in front of him. He tried to clutch it for balance, but his hands were numb, useless, and behind his eyes all he saw was darkness, and he was afraid that if he opened them he would only see more of the same. 

He heard a crash, something heavy falling down and over him, skimming his face, his lip. That machine – 

Shouts, voices. But it was the taste of blood in his mouth that started to bring him back, because it was warm, so warm, and that was wrong. Nothing could feel warm. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe this is a little obvious, but because I started writing this story before Age of Ultron came out, I'm going to ignore any and all of its plot points that might intersect with the logic of what I'm writing. Also, because I _really_ didn't care for Age of Ultron, we're _really_ going to ignore it. One thing in particular. Now in the tags.

“Steve,” a voice whispered, murmuring against his ear. The muscles of his arms were frozen, pulled tight by an icy electricity that branched into his chest, shot cold acid into his veins. He couldn’t move. His hands danced with thousands of painful pinpricks, and he wished they would go numb again.

It whispered his name again, the voice, and he whimpered, struggling to force his chest to expand in the mist of so much paralyzing pain. He almost didn’t want to try – his eyes were still squeezed shut, bursts of neon floating against the dark, and he wanted to fall into it, let the blackness wash over his mind until even those brief colors were extinguished.

But the voice urged him, and other voices joined, far away but urgent. He struggled again to take another breath, to force his lips open.

“Steve!” a voice said, alarmed, and a hand grasped his bicep, clutching at the dead weight of his body. It jerked him out of the dark, but briefly he felt the memory of more hands, pushing him down, restraining him –

“No!” he hissed, lashing out. He felt his hands, half-numb, collide with something hard and soft all at once, something familiar. There was a gasp, low and feminine.

Blood was seeping into his mouth, dribbling down his chin. Warm blood, with the sharp taste of metal. The warmth melted away the memory, and he started to feel his legs, sprawled out on a cool tile floor. He let his eyes open.

Natasha was there, staring at him. She held the back of her hand under her nose, but it wasn’t enough to block the sight of blood draining down her own face, passing over her full lips in bright rivulets. Pepper was kneeling next to her, inspecting the injury with concern. He noticed a tiny spray of blood against the crisp white of her blazer.

“Nat,” he said hoarsely. Pepper’s attention shifted to him immediately, her lips a thin line. “Nat, I’m – I’m sorry –“

He reached out, leaning forward, perhaps to comfort her, reassure her – he wasn’t sure. It hurt when both women recoiled slightly.

“Hey,” a voice said to his side. He turned – Sam. Another hand on his arm, this one wider, firmer. “Don’t try to sit up just yet. Okay?”

He nodded. He licked against the inside of his lower lip, realizing it was swelling, and winced. He could feel the wetness of a few drops of blood still sliding down his neck, but it seemed to be slowing.

“You collapsed,” Sam continued gently. Maybe just to fill the increasingly tense silence.

He nodded again, surveying the lab equipment that now shared the floor with him. That much was obvious. He lifted his eyes, catching a glimpse of Tony standing protectively behind Pepper, arms crossed.

At first, he wanted to ask what had happened, how he’d gotten there. But seeing Tony, the hardness in his eyes, and the slight bit of fear – he remembered. The knowledge sat deep in his stomach, cold and unsettling.

“How did you do it?” Tony asked, suddenly. He stepped forward, gesturing strangely at the air around him, as if he were referring to the lab in its entirely.

“Tony,” Pepper said, warningly. She stood, giving Natasha a brief squeeze on the shoulder before turning back to him. “Now is not the time.”

He watched as Natasha began to stand as well, tilting her head back slightly to quell the nosebleed. Guilt seized at his chest.

“No,” Tony continued. “I’d really like to know.”

He felt Sam tense next to him even without looking. He suddenly felt apathetic about anything Tony Stark wished to know. Bucky’s pain still lingered in his chest, an oppressive heaviness that reminded him old memories, of phlegm and tightness and lingering pneumonia. He’d probably broken Nat’s nose. Everything else seemed incredibly trivial.

“Know what?” he asked sharply. All eyes turned to him, surprised. Maybe it was the slight undercurrent of anger in his tone.

Even Tony seemed a little shocked. Maybe he hadn’t been expecting an answer.

“How you managed to override the entire security system,” he replied succinctly. “You weren’t supposed to get past the elevator.”

The elevator. He remembered the elevator, the doors opening silently for him. The dull eyes reflected back at him in the mirror, hollow, desperate.

He barked out a laugh. He could feel how it made everyone else in the room recoil, how dark it sounded, but how could he answer? There was no way he could explain without sounding completely insane, at least in Tony’s eyes.

“What I’d like to know,” he said instead, raising his eyes purposefully, letting them linger even on Nat, for all his guilt, “Is what you’re all doing here without me, discussing how potentially crazy I am.”

No one responded at first. It was fair, and then it wasn’t fair. They’d cut him out, and they’d doubted him, but he had to admit that it was an almost impossible leap of faith to make. And Pepper had, admittedly, brought some open-minded theories to the table.

“Steve,” Natasha began, and when he heard her voice gurgle weakly behind her crushed nose, he almost instantly regretted calling them out.

“Listen,” Sam said, picking up for her. The two exchanged a long glance, as if wordlessly agreeing on what he should say. “No one thinks you’re crazy. But you have to admit that you’ve been … drained by everything that’s been happening.”

Steve thought about his dream on the plane, the panic he hadn’t been awake to see when he couldn’t be woken from it, when Nat had started checking for his pulse because she’d thought he might be dead.

He nodded, giving Sam permission to go on, and he did. His voice sounded more relaxed, noticeably relieved.

“We didn’t want to just confront you with everything at once,” he continued calmly. “Tony and Pepper had to be brought up to speed from the beginning, and they had their doubts. We just wanted to get all of us on the same page. Present a united front. We thought we could help you the most that way.”

Hearing his friend’s careful words, Steve wondered if he’d overreacted even in the brief anger he’d felt listening to them. Tony’s words had been blunt, that was true. Cruel, even. But they were still here, willing to help him.

At least, for now.

And – he remembered, again, the glimmer of hope that Pepper’s theory offered. The idea of it clenched warmly in his heart, even as it brought to the surface the horrifying vision that had just overtaken him. Surely her words had triggered it, and not his own damaged psyche. He had to believe that.

“You think he could be alive,” he said, directly his words to her. Her expression, unwavering as she divided her attention between tending to Natasha and managing Tony, softened slightly.

“You should rest for a while,” she said gently. “I’ll have something to eat sent up to your room.”

It wasn’t an answer, but he guessed he was hoping for too much if he thought everyone would buckle down for another intense conversation of what to do, after all this. He relented, allowing Sam to help him stand.

“And in the meantime, we’ll get that looked at,” she continued, turning her attention back to Natasha.

“Ehh,” the red-haired woman said dismissively, lowering her chin. “Bleeding’s already stopped.”

Steve met her eyes briefly. Even though she looked horrible, blood drying over her mouth, her expression was calm, devoid of anger. He thought he saw the corner of her mouth drift up into a sad smile before he was led out.

Tony watched him go silently. He had evidently dropped the security issue. At least, again – for now.

No one bothered to ask how he’d known about their meeting.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

Later, Steve was laid out obediently on the bed in his room. It was about as much ‘resting’ as he could stand for now, but it seemed to placate everyone well enough. The swelling in his lip had already all but disappeared, the cut knitting itself back together into a smooth pink line that would quickly fade away.

He wished he could transfer the healing powers of the serum to Nat. She had come down to ‘check in’ on him once she’d gotten the green light on her injury, switching out with Sam. They evidently had an unspoken agreement not to leave him alone.

He hadn’t broken her nose. Still, a bruise bloomed across the center of her face, marring the pale skin in deep maroon. She looked almost as formidable as she had with blood smeared over her chin, her face a mask of perfect calm.

She eyed the sandwich Pepper had sent up, untouched on the nightstand.

“Eat something, Steve,” she said. It wasn’t a request.

He sighed. His hands were feeling normal again, and he itched to move them, to throw his feet off the side of the bed and get up and – what? He didn’t know. There was no plan, but he needed to be doing something. And now that he was under constant supervision, he couldn’t even talk to Bucky.

He should say something. He stared at Natasha, her face casually turned away to stare out the wall of glass that served as his window. It was impossible not to let his eyes drift back again and again to the purple stain under her eye.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Her gaze snapped to him.

“Don’t,” she said. She stood from the chair she’d dragged over and started pacing in front of it, like a caged animal.

“I didn’t want –“ he started, but she rounded on him, striding past the chair to lean over him on the bed.

“Don’t apologize,” she snapped again. “You think I care about this?”

She gestured to her face, and in his mind's eye he saw the blood running down it again, brighter than the red lipstick he’d seen her wear before.

“You should care,” he said, firmly.

The dark look on her face fell for a moment, an incredulous smile breaking across her face. She turned around again, her back facing him as she lifted her arms, ran her hands back through her hair.

She turned around again, and Steve couldn’t help but let his breath hitch in his throat. She rarely seemed this – agitated.

“If you need to apologize for something,” she said, “Apologize for not giving a _damn_ about yourself.”

She met his eyes briefly before resuming her angry stride in front of the bed. He waited, knowing she wasn’t finished.

“You’re collapsing out of nowhere,” she struck out accusingly. “And it’s as if you’re inconvenienced by the fact that we’ve noticed. That we do – in fact - _care_.”

He opened his mouth, then, thinking better of it, closed it. But watching her pace in front of him was worse somehow than staring at her bruise, and the need to explain swelled up in him helplessly.

“He isn’t trying to hurt me,” he began. Nat shot him a look, one clearly with an argument behind it, but he went on before she could interrupt him. “He’s trying to show me things. What happened, it was – he was going into cryostasis. They were _putting_ him in it, and he was fighting, and it felt like –“

The memory of the pain licked through his limbs, and he shuddered. He lifted his hands in front of his face, gingerly flinching his fingers as he remembered.

“Steve,” Natasha said. Her voice had softened slightly, but there was still a warning tone to her voice.

“I saw it after Pepper brought up the idea of,” he continued, “What did she call it? ‘Astral projection’? I think he was – I think he was confirming it. Trying to show me that she was right.”

He paused, giving her a moment to respond. Instead, she just stared back at him.

“I know what you’re going to say,” he muttered, lowering his voice. “That I want it to be true. I want it so much that my mind created that vision itself. We have no proof it was even Bucky, right –“

“We have no proof of anything,” she said quietly. “It’s just as likely he’s dead.”

He looked down, swallowing. It was true. He knew why she said the words. Not to wound him, but because he needed to face them. He appreciated it, in a way. It was better than shielding him, meeting secretly to discuss it without him.

He nodded. Maybe not to agree, but to show that he understood.

The silence settled between them for a moment. When Natasha spoke again, her voice was still soft, but powerful.

“Can’t you see the problem here?” she questioned, closing some of the distance between them. “Something happened that should be frightening. It made you completely lose control of your body. It physically hurt you. And because it gave you one tiny clue, all of that becomes irrelevant.”

Her mouth set in a firm line, and she waited for his response. 

He wasn’t sure what to say. He looked down, knowing that he should be able to say something in his defense, something to reassure her. But she was right.

“Let’s say you found out, somehow,” she continued, “That if we stopped your heart, Bucky could take over your body and tell us where he is. Just _say_ it out loud, with your voice. Tell me you wouldn’t do it.”

The idea hit him, and he wondered if it was plausible. It hadn’t occurred to him, but if Bucky could seize part of his mind while he was sleeping, while he was unconscious –

He looked up slowly, meeting her eyes. A part of him wanted to laugh sadly at himself. The truth settled over him, heavy and terrifying. But it was nothing he could change.

“Tell me you’d do anything different,” he said. “If it were Clint.”

He watched her take in an audible breath. It felt like a low blow, bringing in Clint. It violated one of the unspoken tenets of their friendship. But there didn’t seem to be any other way to make her understand.

He continued to watch as she walked gracefully back to her chair, sitting down. She kept her gaze fixed for a long moment out the window, her chest rising and falling.

She turned back to him, and he remembered the look in her eyes not long ago, when she’d glanced up at him in the middle of drying her hair. But she blinked, and it was gone.

“I’m not sure if we still have Tony,” she said. She swallowed, running her teeth over her lower lip. “He wasn’t exactly happy about you walking into his lab like you owned the place. But Pepper told me JARVIS reactivated the moment you left, so that was helpful.”

She paused, and Steve thought she might ask the same question Tony had – how he’d managed to flawlessly disable all of his security systems. But it was evidently a question for another time.

“If we aren’t sure we have Tony, why are we here?” he asked. He knew he sounded petulant, and impatient, but even the simplest conversation about Tony seemed to put him a little on edge. The idea of any delay did, too.

“He’s Tony,” she said simply. “Give him a few hours to cool off.”

He frowned, souring at the thought of waiting on Tony Stark. But she was right.

“Speaking of JARVIS,” she said neutrally. “Now that he’s up and running properly again - it turns out that he can monitor the entire tower.”

She met his eyes and narrowed her own, as if daring him to object to this. He wasn’t sure about the extent of JARVIS’ capabilities, but it didn’t seem out of line for him to be able to notice someone falling into unconsciousness. Monitor their heartbeat.

“You don’t say,” he said, half-smiling. It was almost comforting.

“And Tony probably has some sort of new program in place,” she continued lowly, “To monitor him, and make sure he _stays_ up and running.”

Somehow, Steve knew almost anything Tony Stark came up with in the way of programming would be no match for Bucky, if he really needed to go anywhere. He was a genius, but it was just apples and oranges. An entirely unfair fight.

That knowledge was comforting, too. Still, he planned on staying out of Stark’s lab uninvited. It seemed wise, if he was counting on his help.

“Probably,” he agreed. Natasha almost smiled.

She stood, and Steve realized – he was a little ashamed at how relieved he felt about it, actually – that she was leaving.

“Eat something,” she said firmly.

He watched her go, his heart warming in his chest as he heard the gentle click of the door. Even if he couldn’t acknowledge how much, he was grateful.

He laid down fully, settling back against the mountain of pillows that rose against the headboard. They collapsed under his weight like melting marshmallows, and he groaned at the horrible softness.

He didn’t want to eat. The idea turned his stomach. Maybe the vision was still hanging over him, making his body feel less like something to be nurtured and more like something waiting to turn against him.

But he could sleep. He could dream.

It had become almost the same as doing.


	17. Chapter 17

He wants to kiss Bucky again.

It’s less a thought than a visceral want, churning through his veins as hot and sharp as the alcohol. It keeps him stumbling forward, and Bucky’s arm, firmly tucked behind his neck and under his arm, keeps him from falling to the icy pavement in his eagerness.

It’s difficult to think, to focus in on anything else with Bucky so solid and so close – if the effort of walking wasn’t so jarring and difficult, it would be nothing to let his cheek fall back against his shoulder, tuck his head under his chin, press his lips to his throat. He wants all of that, and the constant contact of Bucky’s body keeps him circling back to it. But there are moments –

He licks his lips, tasting the bitter air. Moments of emotion that claw to the surface and break free, like his heart taking a breath. Elation, because Bucky kissed him, Bucky touched him, and there’s the promise of more. A guttural stab of fear, because he doesn’t know why. Then elation again because – does it matter?

He’s drunk, blissfully drunk, and the prettiness of the fresh snowflakes settling delicately on Bucky's dark hair matters almost as much as why. But there are moments when he knows it will matter. He just can’t think those thoughts into his consciousness, right now.

He slips a little on a patch of ice, hears Bucky’s sudden gasp as he catches him. Not catches him – he’s already holding him, but squeezes him more tightly, setting him upright.

He laughs, but Bucky doesn’t. He tries to look at his face, meet his eyes, even though they’re walking. The other man ignores him, mostly, but sometimes looks down at him with a weak smile, and eyes that shimmer wetly under the yellow streetlights.

“We’re almost there,” Bucky murmurs, and his heart surges with relief. He wants to kiss him. The way his friend looks down at him, eyes softening, lips falling open, he thinks he might. But he looks away, firmly, and they keep walking.

There are stairs, horrible stairs, so many of them, and Bucky has to all but carry him. He feels a little guilty, but when he nearly falls to his knees after just three or four, he doesn’t argue. He lifts his weight from under his shoulders, turning his stumbling walk into a kind of hovering drag, and he’s surprised Bucky doesn’t just scoop him up under the knees and carry him properly.

But then, he thinks hazily, if he did that when Steve was sober he’d probably kick and argue and not allow it. He can’t exactly remember why.

Finally, they reach the door. Bucky carefully lowers him back to the floor, making sure he can stand without swaying before digging out his keys. Steve watches him, licking his lips again as he surveys the tension in his jawline, the firm press of his lips. He looks determined. Almost angry. Is he angry?

Doubt surges up in him briefly, and then confusion. But then Bucky’s wide hand is on his shoulder, ushering him in the door before him, and he lets it guide him.

He steps into their kitchen, tiny and dark. The city light filtering in through their grimy window is enough light to see by, almost, and either way Bucky doesn’t move to flick on the single bulb.

He shrugs out of Bucky’s too big coat, pausing to catch his balance before carefully folding it flat over his arm. He does it slowly and stiffly, like a child practicing, but somehow, even drunk, he can’t disrespect Bucky’s things.

The other man watches him warily. Like he thinks he might stumble and fall again, except he doesn’t come closer.

“You soberin’ up, Stevie?” he asks quietly. 

Steve lays the folded coat over one of the kitchen chairs. The edges don’t quite line up right, but he figures that doesn’t matter. He blinks several times, his mind swimming. 

He turns to Bucky, looks his body over, half-hidden in the shadows. He thinks of kissing him, but now, with just a little distance between them, he’s more doubtful. Maybe he is sobering up.

He shrugs for an answer, then watches, mesmerized, as Bucky begins to slowly unbutton his cuffs. He pushes the white fabric of his sleeve up to the elbows, exposing his forearms, paler now in the winter but not quite as pale as him. He swallows.

“You wanna go to bed?” Bucky asks. His voice is strange. Hollow, almost – defeated. He frowns at that, tries to think it through, but then his brain is also thinking through what Bucky means with his question, and he doesn’t really know for sure, and that makes his heart rate pick up.

He takes a step forward. He’s nervous. The worst kind – the kind mingled with hope.

“Yeah,” he breathes. He nods, because he isn’t sure if Bucky hears him. He nods in return, letting Steve cross the threshold first, following him closely.

The bedroom is just as dark, but familiar. He knows instinctively where the furniture is, the beds, the nightstand, the lamp. Bucky goes to stand next to his bed, where he always undresses. Usually, he talks, distracting Steve away from the act of taking off his clothes with light, teasing jokes or questions about his day or bitching about the weather.

Now, though, he’s quiet, slowly undoing his buttons one by one, his head lowered. Steve isn’t sure what to feel – his mind wars between unsettled and guiltily aroused. Bucky didn’t ask for him to undress him. But would he? Even if he –

Bucky is so quiet, and he’s so confused. Behind the warm haze of the alcohol, still flowing and leaving his limbs weak, he can feel a dull pulse at his temple. Did they kiss? He remembers it, but now it seems far away, like something that happened years ago, a dream he confused with reality. Did he?

He doesn’t want to speak and he doesn’t know what to do, so he starts to clumsily unbutton his shirt too. He curses at the third one down, the small, slick disks slipping under his fingers.

“Here,” Bucky’s voice says, and suddenly he’s there, reaching out for his chest. “Let me.”

Steve sucks in a breath, because he’s close again, his head bowed. His own shirt is fully undone and hanging open, exposing the white tank underneath. He can’t bear to look up at him, so he stares instead at the gentle rise and fall of Bucky’s chest.

Bucky frees the buttons of his shirt quickly. Efficiently. Steve hopes he’ll hover close to him, put his hands on him, like he did in the alley, and end the miserable, half-drunk limbo in his mind of what to do. He doesn’t. Instead, he steps away.

But back toward the bed.

Steve’s heart starts hammering again. Bucky slips off his open shirt, casting it on the floor, but not with his usual casual toss. He just lets it fall. And he still doesn’t look Steve in the face.

Steve shrugs his own shirt off slowly, hesitantly, and discards it too. He’s beginning to panic, and even though he should be too drunk to care he knows why. Because if this is how it’s going to be, with Bucky refusing to look at him –

He doesn’t want that. He wants Bucky’s hands clutching at his back like he can’t pull him close enough, wants his mouth moving against his desperately. Like he might die if Steve stopped him. Like before.

Still, he doesn’t know if he could say no.

Bucky is undoing his belt buckle. He stiffens at the familiar sound, the slide of leather against leather. Jesus. Steve wishes he would say something. Anything. Even the meaningless batter of every night before would be preferable.

He undoes the button on his pants, unzips his fly, drops them and kicks them off like it’s nothing. Steve doesn’t know if he can breathe. 

“It’s cold,” Bucky mumbles. This is an invitation, although it’s usually said with much more subtle fanfare, numerous coy attempts to make it seem like nothing, casual but purposefully said statements about how he doesn’t want Steve getting sick.

His stomach drops and it might be wrong and he might be desperate but he nods. He drops his own pants as quickly as he can, jerking his belt buckle free with rough determination because he thinks he might pass out if Bucky were to walk back over and offer to do it for him.

Bucky walks the few paces to his bed, opening up the covers and slipping inside, lifting his arm to kept them held up and welcome him in, too. It’s almost exactly like before, except too quiet, and the fact that his heart feels like it might explode in his chest.

It’s too much, being this close to him, their breath almost intermingling, so close it’s a challenge not to brush up against each other. The blankets have barely settled over their bodies before he snaps, because he can’t pretend, one way or the other.

He rolls on top of the larger man in one fluid movement, pinning him down. He doesn’t care anymore, and something more powerful than the alcohol urges him on, makes him honest. He doesn’t care that his half-hard dick is pressing down into Bucky’s stomach, and that there’s nothing to stop him from feeling it.

“You _kissed_ me,” he whispers, more desperate than accusing. He watches Bucky’s eyes widen as he stares down at him, forcing him to meet his eyes. He realizes, in horror, that he might start to cry.

Bucky’s mouth falls open, and he shudders under his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he says, frightened and imploring.

Steve bends down and kisses him. He presses his mouth down firmly over his full lips and sucks the tiniest bit as he pulls back, but just a fraction, not enough to end the kiss. Enough to start it.

Bucky makes a tiny sound at the back of his throat, and Steve feels him surge up, tilting his lips into his so that they fit together.

They fit, and their mouths move with gentle restraint, and Steve wants to sigh in happiness the moment he feels Bucky’s tentative hand on his bare arm, the calloused palm squeezing as if to confirm he’s real.

But then Bucky makes another soft cry, his hand clutching and releasing and suddenly pushing him back.

The kiss breaks, leaving Steve panting lightly and staring down at him in surprise.

Bucky looks shocked, too. More than shocked – terrified. His eyes are wide and hollow, the eyes of a man who'd just heard the gunshot destined to kill him.

“We should stop,” he says quickly, his voice strangled. 

Steve is stunned. Everything in him wants to close the distance between them again and take his mouth, shut him up and prove him wrong, but he can’t. He can’t go against him, can’t force this.

“Buck, please,” he says pleadingly. He tries to put every ounce of want in his body into the words. He leans down despite himself.

Bucky pushes him back, firmer this time.

“We can’t,” he insists. His lips tremble, but then his jaw stiffens. His expression goes hard.

Shame rushes over Steve. He feels the threat of tears again, pressing against the back of his eyes, closing off his throat. He is painfully aware of how close they are and how close they shouldn’t be, and he lifts his hips up like they’re a hot iron to the man’s skin, rolling back over as quickly as he’d moved over him.

He turns his back to him. He curls in on himself – pathetic, but he doesn’t care. He fights to stay still, forcing out his breath in uneven gasps. He can’t cry. He’d kill himself, if he cried now, in front of him.

“Steve,” Bucky whispers, his voice hesitant, regretful. Steve lets the briefest glimmer of hope spark in his chest as he feels his friend’s warm hand on his shoulder.

“You’re drunk,” he goes on. His voice is hollower now. Deliberate. He waits a moment, letting the words sink in. “You’ll regret it.”

Steve shrugs his hand off violently. He feels childish, and helpless, and exposed. All of it summons a wave of irrational anger in his chest, anger mostly directly at himself, but also Bucky. Because he _had_ kissed him, hadn’t he? He had kissed him first.

Except his memory of it was hazy. Gut-twistingly warm and wonderful but hazy. Maybe he had made the first move. He had been drunk after all, very _very_ drunk. And maybe Bucky had been drunk too, earlier in the night. Maybe he’d caught him off guard and he'd just gone along with his body, and wanted to forget until Steve crawled on top of him sober and kissed him again and made him reject him outright.

He can’t remember the details. And that makes him even angrier.

He turns around, suddenly. Not to throw his body over Bucky, like before, but just to face him. His friend’s shoulders jerk in surprise.

“I went once,” he says coldly. “To one of those queer bars.”

He doesn’t know why he’s confessing this. Part of his mind panics, whispers that he’s only digging his grave deeper. But another part is deeply satisfied to watch Bucky’s eyes widen in shock, his lips falling open as if he can’t believe it. Of course he can’t believe it.

“Didn’t think anything would happen,” he goes on. His tone is murderous, surprising even him. His anger colors everything, but as the words slip out of him, he knows it isn’t Bucky he’s punishing. It’s himself. “But I met someone.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. Even this close, it’s hard to make out his expression in the dark. But Steve thinks he looks a bit like someone punched him in the gut.

“He was real nice,” he continues hollowly. “Charming. Kinda handsome. I couldn’t figure out what he was even doin’, talkin’ to me. He bought me a buncha drinks I couldn’t afford. Whiskey. The good stuff.”

He watches as Bucky’s breathing hitches. Good. He wants him to be disgusted. He wants him to never think twice about kissing Steve again.

“I was good and drunk and he led me outside and I didn’t even know where we were going until he took me to the alley,” he says with harsh precision. “He wanted me to get on my knees for him. And you know what, Buck? I almost did.”

He waits. He half expects Bucky to jump in and stop him, say he doesn’t want to hear it, snap and go off on him. He doesn’t. He just breathes, raggedly, staring at him open-mouthed.

“Why didn’t you?” he finally asks. His voice is so small that Steve almost doesn’t answer, doesn’t want to add this final twist of the knife. But he's angry, and vulnerable, and he wants anything that would make him feel like he had the power to hurt him.

He shrugs.

“He reminded me of you,” he says. He meets Bucky’s eyes for one tense second, sinking his cold stare into his light eyes, still wide with shock. And then he flips back over, facing the darkness.

Immediately he has to choke down the urge to cry again. It’s harder, this time. He thinks he almost gags on the tears. Part of him wants to get up and move to his own bed, but then, he can think of no better punishment for himself than to stay. It could be the final nail in the coffin, yet another piece of evidence to prove that Bucky didn’t want him, if he couldn’t believe even the words out of his own mouth.

Lying so close, and feeling the ache of Bucky not touching him.


	18. Chapter 18

He stayed perfectly still even as he started to wake up. He felt frozen, his muscles rigid, as if by not letting his body move, he could keep it together. He was hollowed out, and nothing frightened him more than the inevitably of opening his eyes.

A hand was on his shoulder, hesitant but warm. For a brief moment, he let himself believe it was Bucky, Bucky in the dream, reaching out to him even after what he’d said, after he’d shoved him away as far as he possibly could. Or Bucky in whatever form he took now, his touch humming with static. It was hard to say which he wanted more, which he could most swallow as real.

But then the hand gripped him firmly and started to shake him, rocking him back toward the surface of reality. He wanted to stay motionless, to put off thinking through the dream as long as he could, but he finally relented, taking in a shuddering breath.

“Steve,” a voice said, hesitant, but heavy with concern. He knew it immediately. Sam.

He didn’t want to wake up. He wanted to curl in on himself, hold himself still until the dream slipped from him. That wasn’t possible, with Sam in front of him.

He opened his eyes. Now that he’d finally allowed himself to take a breath, he was having trouble catching it, and he clutched at his chest. Sam frowned, squeezing his arm gently before letting go.

“Sorry to wake you,” he said. “JARVIS reported that your heart rate was elevated. Was it a nightmare?”

He nodded at first, the helplessness of the dream still hanging on him. Even as he pulled air fully in and out of his lungs, he couldn’t escape the dream’s final wave of emptiness, the knowledge that everything he’d ever wanted would only become further and further out of his reach.

Then he shook his head. Memories weren’t nightmares. They were worse – real and permanent and unchangeable.

Sam watched him, his mouth turning down in confusion. He was patient, and he waited a moment before speaking.

“Was it from him?” he asked, gently. “Did he show you something?”

Steve opened his mouth to speak, and realized he was still focusing on how to breath. 

“No,” he managed to choke out. His voice was hoarse from sleep. “Just – old memories.”

His skin crawled under Sam’s gaze. He wondered how much he could see, and if seeing too much was the reason behind his silence. Was it obvious to him that he couldn’t feel anything, that his heart felt as numb as his hands when Bucky had taken him over? At least he felt no need to cry. He just wanted to stare out at nothing and keep remembering to breath.

Sam didn’t push him further. He leaned back in the chair he’d pulled up to Steve’s bedside, unsmiling. As Steve glanced at him, he saw something of himself in him. Sam’s eyes were wide and staring, too.

“I used to dream about Riley,” he said quietly. “After I lost him.”

He met Steve’s eyes purposefully, and he recoiled under his stare. It was hard to meet his gaze, hard to translate the chaos in his mind into the kind of give and take between them that he knew was supposed to be rewarding. He couldn’t talk about the dream. Not this one.

Sam seemed to know, somehow, that he couldn’t say anything. So he just started talking.

“I had the ones where I tried to save him,” he began quietly. “And I couldn’t, over and over. You know, the kind of dreams where you’re really just punishing yourself.”

He paused, drawing his teeth over his lower lip slowly. 

“But the worst were memories,” he said. “Just little things, talking about nothing, having breakfast together. And I’d start to wake up thinking I was going to wake up into that old world and instead I got – you know – this.”

Steve nodded. He knew what that was like. He knew, too, that this was his chance to jump in, maybe confess that his dream was like the first kind Sam had described. But he couldn’t.

Sam sighed. Steve looked down, grasping at what he could say to his friend, a good friend that was clearly trying so hard to give him some kind of comfort. Nothing came.

“Right after he died I had these thoughts,” Sam continued. “Like maybe he wasn’t really gone. Like he couldn’t be because – how could he leave me, you know? And I hated myself for that. All these people shaking my hand and telling me I was brave and that Riley was in a better place, and I was hoping he _wasn’t_ in heaven. Hoping he’d give that up to be with me.”

He took in a deep breath, clearing struggling to maintain his composure. Steve was watching him intently, now. His mouth fell open as he listened.

“Really selfish thoughts,” he went on darkly. “Wishing for things that weren’t just selfish, they were impossible. I went to the groups, for grief, and they told me to let go. At first I didn’t think that was possible either, but they kept saying it, and over time, you know. It did get better.”

He should’ve realized. All this time, everything he’d dragged him through trying to reach Bucky, everything he’d tried to shove down his throat and make him believe. And he’d never even considered how, at every turn, he would be thinking of Riley.

“I’m sorry,” Steve mumbled. He finally felt something – a fresh stab of guilt in his chest. “I’ve been – I’ve asked a lot of you and I never –“

He cut himself off, because what could he say? He’d let Sam in because he was desperate for help, and he hadn’t considered, for a second, how it would affect him?

“Shit, Steve, _I’m_ sorry,” he said suddenly. “That’s what I’m trying to say. I know how to move on, or at least, you know, how to try. No one ever told me, ‘Don’t let him go. Hold onto him with everything you have’. Have faith, you know. And I don’t know how to say that to you, even if it’s what you need to hear.”

Steve felt his mouth turn up weakly, struggling for a smile and failing.

“I don’t need a cheerleader,” he said quietly. “I’ve appreciated your honesty. I – I need that just as much.”

Sam looked like he might almost smile, too.

“Yeah,” he said, leaning forward a little. “But this isn’t like Riley. You have a chance. I don’t know how this is gonna end – maybe you will have to let go, in the end. I just want you to know that I’ll be here for you if that’s how it plays out. And I’m here for you now. No matter what you need to do.”

Steve wanted to throw his legs over the bed and hug him, really hug him, because his heart was heavy with equal parts guilt and gratitude, and he still couldn’t think of a damn thing to say.

“Thank you,” he said, hoping the sincerity in his voice was clear. “I – I can’t –“

“You can,” Sam interrupted. Steve took in a deep breath, and nodded.

“You should tell me more about Riley, sometime,” he said carefully. He hoped his intentions were clear in this, too. A promise that, slowly, over time, Steve would try to repay him for this.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed softly. “Absolutely.”

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

He couldn’t sleep again, after Sam left. Instead, he stood at the window, watching silently as the sun rose over the city. 

His city. Their city.

The hazy orange glow softened the buildings, blurring the details until it was possible to imagine them in any age. They looked like home. Back then, he’d never seen the streets from this far up, but he could imagine it was the same. 

He shouldn’t let the dream cut him as deeply as it did. His conversation with Sam was a firm reminder of that. Riley was dead. Tony’s parents were dead. Even Bucky, if he was alive, was frozen and suffering and at the mercy of a horrifying organization that could end his life at any moment. And here he was, pining over bad memories that didn’t matter any more.

It hadn’t even marked a real change. Bucky had forgiven him, after. It was awkward at first. His smoke breaks outside of the apartment stretched to half hour disappearances, and he came home more often with whiskey on his breath, his eyes wide and glassy. His gaze lingered on him when he thought Steve didn’t notice, like he was trying to sort him out. But he never asked if Steve was gay.

And then there was Pearl Harbor, and Bucky started touching him, the way he used to. Throwing an arm around him, mock punching his chin. War put things in perspective, he guessed. It was hard not to forgive the friends you might never see again.

He wondered, vaguely, if Bucky asked him about their history, if he’d tell him about that kiss. Because it hadn’t mattered, really. It hadn’t changed their friendship.

The only person it had changed things for was him. The dream made those memories fresh again, the brief period between rejection and the war when the only thing that seemed to matter was Bucky. It wasn’t as if he’d really felt hope, before he’d kissed him – he hadn’t – but something about the finality of it, of having tested the waters and gotten the answer he’d hoped never to hear – made everything worse. Made everything clear and impossible to ignore. 

If he could push his thoughts away before, they haunted him then. If he’d been able to convince himself that he was jealous Bucky could get a girl and not jealous of the girl herself, the way she could smile and blush and hold his hand and be led to the dancefloor, he couldn’t anymore.

And when he hurriedly got off in the shower, if he’d thought of Bucky before and tried to bury the image of him with a dozen pin-up girls, now all he could think of was kissing him, and the brief moment when he’d thought he’d kissed him back, and what it might have been like if it had gone differently. He rewrote the ending constantly, imagining what every detail would feel like. 

What if Bucky had moaned into his mouth? Run his hands up his sides? Gotten hard underneath him? He’d played with every option, until it almost felt real in his head.

Steve swallowed hard. But that hadn’t mattered. It hadn’t even lasted that long, because soon they had the war, and the very real possibility that Bucky might die gave him the strength to stop dwelling on what he couldn’t change. Appreciate the time they had together before he shipped out, appreciate his forgiveness and the depth of their friendship.

He needed to focus. He needed a war. Saving Bucky was what mattered now. It was all that mattered. Not memories. Not dreams.

He stared out at the city. More people were dotting the sidewalks, and the light had shifted from orange to white gold. 

It was so quiet. He looked around his room, frowning at the sleek, minimalist furniture. Was Bucky still here with him? 

He could talk to him, he realized. He could try and find out. But oddly, he didn’t know if he wanted to. He didn’t know what he could say. Bucky already knew what he needed to know. He knew Steve was coming for him. He knew he was trying.

He took in a deep breath, listening as he exhaled. He felt alone.

Silently, he prayed that Bucky couldn’t watch him dream.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

He wasn’t alone for long. All of the pink had faded from the sky, replaced by pale blue, when he heard a brisk knock at his door.

He opened it to see Pepper, already immaculate, even at the ungodly hour it must be. She gave him a small smile and handed him a cup of coffee.

“May I?” she asked, and he stepped back, letting her step into the room before closing the door behind her. She made her way to the window, glancing outside before turning to him.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you’re awake,” she offered.

“Don’t worry,” he said, taking a deep sip from the cup in his hand. His eyes wandered to the uneaten sandwich on his nightstand, and he cursed himself. He hoped she wouldn’t see it and somehow report back to Natasha. “I got some sleep.”

“Good,” she said gently. Her smile appeared again, kind but strained. It made him painfully aware of how little he knew her, but also appreciative. She was too polite to ask too much. “Anyway. Tony asked me to send you up. He’s been working all night, and he says he has an idea to run past you.”

His eyes widened at that. 

“Working all night?” he repeated. He wasn’t sure what he had expected out of Tony, but it wasn’t that. 

“It’s typical,” she said. She kept her voice casual, but as she met his eyes, he could tell she appreciated his surprise. “He likes a challenge.”

He wasn’t sure what to say. He was shocked, frankly, that he evidently cared that much. Or maybe he did just view it that way, as a simple challenge, a puzzle to solve in between inventing weapons of mass destruction and saving the world.

“I won’t keep him waiting,” he said simply. 

Pepper nodded, her perfect red lipstick curving up with her smile.

“I’ll take you up.”


	19. Chapter 19

Steve tried to keep himself in check as they boarded the elevator. He didn’t want to hope for too much. It had only been a number of hours, after all. And Pepper had stated that he had an ‘idea,’ not a solution.

He turned his head toward her slightly. She certainly didn’t seem excited. But then again, he had never seen her without a smooth mask of composure.

She entered a long security code, and he admired her slick red nails as she laid her hand flat against the small screen, allowing it to scan her palm.

He wanted to find something to say. He felt indebted to her, as if he should extend his gratitude to Tony, however conflicted, through her.

“Thank you,” he said. It was automatic, and nowhere near enough, but it sated the need in him regardless.

She lowered her hand back to her side, giving him a surprisingly wry smile.

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said easily. “Tony was pretty vague about whatever it is he’s offering you. I claim no endorsement.”

“Still,” he pressed. She nodded with the same warm calmness, and then the doors were opening before them.

She approached the doors to the lab with him, extending her hand as if to usher him inside.

“Welcome, Captain,” came JARVIS’ smooth voice. The doors to the lab parted.

“Keep in mind,” she said teasingly, “He’s not exactly a morning person.”

“You’re not coming in?” he asked. It was hard to keep the sudden concern out of his voice. Dealing with Tony on his own, even if he was extending his help, wasn’t something he had exactly prepared himself for.

“This place doesn’t run itself,” she said simply. Evidently, she didn’t share the same level of concern. “And besides. He asked to speak with you alone.”

He frowned. There had to be a reason why, and he didn’t like that suggestion.

Pepper must’ve sensed his worry. She stepped closer, briefly resting her hand on his arm.

“Sometimes Tony’s better one-on-one,” she said quietly. “He isn’t exactly one for – group dynamics.”

Steve cringed. That was an absolute understatement.

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” he said. The words were hollow – he wasn’t sure about anything – but they seemed to be enough to reassure Pepper.

“I’ll see you soon,” she said. One last smile of encouragement, and she turned to go, retracing her steps back to the elevator. He turned to the doors, walking through them and into the lab with as confident a stride as he could manage.

Tony had evidently been waiting on him. He was leaning against a table, casually taking long sips of his coffee. He looked over as he entered, raising his eyebrows.

“Sleep well, Cap?” he asked casually, setting down his mug with a heavy clink.

Steve repressed a sigh. He had no patience for pleasantries, not with Tony, and yet he bit back his desire to say what immediately came to mind. Cut to the chase, Stark.

“Fine,” he said, mouthing the word carefully. He needed to be polite. Tony was helping him of his own free will, and the only world at stake here was his own. “I have a great view.”

There. That was nice. Now get on with it.

“Glad you appreciate it,” Tony replied easily. Was he enjoying this? He gripped his own cup of coffee tighter, so tightly he began to prepare for the feeling of the hot liquid soaking his knuckles at any moment. “I’d apologize for waking you up, but I bet you rise with the dawn every morning, huh?”

He wasn’t sure if this was meant as a Grandpa joke or a stab at being a goody two-shoes, but either way – he took in a steadying breath. He wanted to make a comment along the lines of how he was sure the sunrise was lovely from the strip club parking lot as well, but again – Tony Stark was going to help him. Hopefully.

“You have something to show me?” he asked. Tony straightened up a bit at this, his face falling into seriousness.

“Yep,” he said. He picked up an item from the table he was leaning against, littered with tools and parts and his coffee mug. Steve hadn’t noticed it, walking in. It was the head to an Iron Man suit.

“Catch,” Tony said quickly, and Steve barely had time to drop his own coffee on the nearest flat surface before the helmet was thrown into his hands like a football.

He looked down at it, turning it in his hands until the visor faced him. It looked exactly like the head of Tony’s current suit, with the exception that it was unpainted. He rubbed his thumbs against the smooth metal, frowning.

“This seems – very familiar,” he said slowly. Tony was watching him expectantly, as if gauging his reaction, but he couldn’t for the life of him understand what he was supposed to make of this.

“It’s a prototype,” Tony said. His voice was brighter, more confident, and Steve could hear a hint of showmanship growing in his tone. “So. This is how the current model of the suit functions. I think of a target.”

He tapped his forehead. Steve nodded. He had no idea where this was headed.

“The suit identifies and locks on to the same target. I confirm that this is the correct target, mentally, and then order the suit to aim and fire.”

“Ahh,” Steve said slowly, licking his lips. “So that’s how it works.”

“But imagine,” Tony went on, the same lilt of excitement in his tone, “If we could streamline this process.”

Steve looked down at the head in his hands, his frown deepening.

“I don’t –“

“I think of a target,” the other man continued, his voice building. “The suit identifies the same target in spatial reality by reading my brain activity. I decide to shoot, it shoots. No order to fire. Seamless integration.”

His lips parted at he stared down at the metal head in his hands, struggling to process what he’d just heard.

“So you’re saying,” Steve began tentatively, not quite believing the words even as they formed in his mouth. “You would be able to fire off a weapon the moment the thought to do it entered your mind?”

“Exactly,” Tony confirmed.

He couldn’t look at him. He continued staring down into the helmet instead, imagining his thumbs crushing into the cheekbones of its metal face. This conversation, it seemed, was perfectly summing up his every reservation about coming to New York.

“Please tell me you aren’t seriously considering bringing this into reality,” Steve said, his voice dark with urgency. He set the head back on the table, hard.

“Can you imagine how efficiently you could fight with technology like this?” Tony shot back. His voice was insistent, but Steve could already see the features of his face withdrawing in anger. “Particularly numerous enemies at once. This could save lives.”

“And you think being able to fire a weapon on a whim, instantaneously, isn’t a dangerous concept?” he demanded. His voice was rising, and a part of him knew he needed to calm himself before he took it further, but the idea was too much. “You think the mind doesn’t make mistakes?”

“Anyone wearing the suit could make a mistake,” Tony answered darkly. “They would just do it more slowly.”

“What if it you fired it in anger?” Steve continued. “You’re cutting out the moment of hesitation that gives you the opportunity to stop and do the right thing!”

He thought, suddenly, of the last time he’d seen Bucky. Kneeling over him, his arm pulled back, hand curled into a fist, ready to finish him. What he’d seen of his face through his blurry vision – the wide eyes, the horror in his frozen features.

“Jesus, relax,” Tony said. His voice was terse, but it was clear to him he was struggling as well not to jump into a fight. That knowledge made him stop and take a breath. That, or he was paralyzed for a moment by the thought of Bucky, deciding to spare him. “The damn thing doesn’t even work.”

Steve continued to breathe, sucking in heavier and heavier breaths until he could think. He glanced at the helmet, lying innocuously on its side on the table.

“What?” he asked quietly.

“I had to make sure it could accurately identify a target based on information from brain activity alone,” Tony began, his voice returning to a calm that was almost conversational. “I hooked it up to JARVIS so he could analyze the data it read while I had it on, the same data it would subsequently send to the rest of the suit.”

Steve licked his lips, continuing to breathe. He didn’t trust himself to say anything.

“It’s not precise enough,” Tony explained. He thought he heard the slightest bit of bitterness in his tone, and that briefly reignited a spark of anger. “I chose my coffee mug as the target. It saw the mug, but also the entire lab, and then Pepper, because I thought of her, bringing me the coffee.”

“Stark,” he began slowly, carefully. “If you ever –“

“Prototype, not functional, not a threat at the moment,” Tony interjected quickly. “Anyway, yeah. Too much sensory information. I tried it while I was sleeping, thinking maybe if I blocked some of it out and really focused on the target until I passed out – but no. The coffee cup was in there somewhere, but also my favorite bagel place, and for some reason this Asian waitress when Pepper and I went out for sushi –“

“I get it,” he barked. “It sees everything in your head. But how do you even know what it’s able to read?”

“JARVIS can translate the data into a real time image stream,” he said smoothly. “Basically a digital video. A recording.”

“A video,” he repeated dumbly.

“Yeah,” Tony confirmed. He frowned, shrugging his shoulders. “Well, sort of. A very weird video. Sort of like walking through a modern art museum on LSD and saying, oh hey, that looks like a painting of Pepper. But yeah. You can make things out.”

Steve raised his eyebrows, the corner of his mouth turning down.

“I said it didn’t work,” Tony pointed out, returning his disgusted frown with a touchy one of his own.

“So what you’re telling me,” Steve began, trying to keep his voice calm and level, “Is that on your journey to bring to life the most horrifying concept for weapons technology I’ve ever heard, you stumbled on a technology that allows you to record dreams.”

“More or less,” Tony agreed amicably.

Steve lowered his head, thinking. Ideas were beginning to click into place, but they still didn’t seem possible.

“So if Bucky –“ he began to ask, but then cut himself off, ignoring Tony’s jump of interest at the name. He didn’t like saying it in front of him. It was almost too personal. “So if I dreamt about the location where I think HYDRA is holding him –“

“We could record it,” Tony confirmed, nodding. “Yeah.”

“But you’re saying the quality of the image would be terrible,” Steve went on doubtfully. “I already know what it kind of looks like, I drew a stretch. I’m not sure how another bad picture is going to help.”

Tony took in a deep breath, lifting his shoulders in tandem with it. He steeled his expression, almost as if he had been waiting for this turn in the conversation.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Here’s the idea. If we can improve the quality of the image we capture, I can have JARVIS translate the data into a kind of three-dimensional model of the area. If the proportions are accurate enough, he can cross reference them to any existing image on the Internet.”

“What if it’s never been photographed?” Steve asked tentatively. 

“Ever hear of Google Earth?” Tony questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“Okay,” Steve said, wringing his hands absently. “This all makes sense, I guess, but – how are you going to ‘improve the quality of the image’?”

For the first time, Tony was quiet. He straightened up, eying him as if considering how to answer, or maybe whether to answer.

He turned back to the table, reaching through the clutter of objects to pull forward a small, stainless steel box. Steve watched as he slowly opened it, revealing a row of small, clear glass vials.

Tony met his eyes briefly, removing a vial carefully and handing it to him.

“It’s something Banner’s been working on for awhile now,” he explained. Steve turned the little bottle between his thumb and finger, rubbing the cool glass. It looked so innocent, like a child’s vaccination. 

“What is it?” he asked quietly. 

“Emergency knockout drug, for when he Hulks out,” Tony went on. “Not quite there yet, obviously. But the regular drugs probably wouldn’t do shit for you, am I right? The same cocktail that would put a normal person under for twelve hours would just make you a little tipsy.”

His eyes widened as he continued to stare down at the vial, rolling it gently in his fingertips.

“What exactly are you proposing we do?” Steve questioned. He finally looked up, meeting the other man’s eyes.

“We give him a really, really blank state,” Tony answered firmly. “Minimal brain activity. Not even the subconscious crap you get dreaming. He goes in, shows us what we need to see – hopefully we get a decent image.”

Steve knit his eyebrows together, his shoulders tensing.

“Minimal brain activity?” he repeated. He glanced down again at the vial, as if it could somehow give him answers.

“Think of it as – well – a coma,” Tony said, his voice disturbingly upbeat. “A very brief, very temporary coma.”

Steve swallowed hard. Natasha’s words came back to him, still fresh. Questioning how hard he was willing to go, cautioning him against his answer. But still, despite what she had implied, he didn’t think he had any real choice.

“Sounds irrationally danger-“ he began, but was cut off. There was a pressure on his forearm, tight and growing around his wrist. He gasped, trying to pull his hand back close to his chest, but he couldn’t. Instinctively, he tightened his grip on the vial.

“You alright there, Cap?” he heard Tony question. He winced. The pressure was becoming painful, like a vice around his wrist. A hand. A very powerful hand.

“Stop,” he said quietly. He tried again to pull his hand back, but he couldn’t. “Please, you’re hurting –“

He cringed, grinding his teeth together as the pressure only sharpened into indecipherable pain. He held back a whimper as his hand finally relented, his fingers convulsing as they dropped the vial.

It shattered on the floor, and Tony jumped toward it immediately, kneeling down to stare at the tiny puddle of clear fluid amidst tiny shards of glass.

“Shit!” the other man said under his breath. 

As soon as the vial shattered, the pressure disappeared, leaving a dull ache. Steve tentatively reached out with his other hand, gently rubbing his wrist. Already, the skin was blooming red.

He looked down at Tony, still staring mournfully at the smashed bottle.

“We don’t have an unlimited supply of those, you know,” he muttered, finally standing. “Developing brand new superdrugs isn’t cheap. If Banner were here –“

Steve continued rubbing his wrist absently, too focused on the residual pain to try and apologize. Falling into the memory of cryostasis had been one thing. Bucky had felt that pain himself, was trying to share it. But this was deliberate, and it wounded him.

Another person telling him to stop. Even Bucky, telling him to stop. He wished he could find the words to explain how impossible that was. There was no life without following this through. When Bucky died the first time, it had been different. It was done. There was no hope to chase down.

Maybe he could let go, if he chased it now to the very end and had nothing left. But not until then. Not even Bucky could make the choice for him, to force him to live without knowing.

“Do it,” he said. He heard his own voice like it was being spoken by someone else. Someone who had absolutely certainty.

Tony stared at him. For a moment, even he looked doubtful.

“You sure?” he asked, finally. “You don’t need to run it past Mom and Dad?”

Steve licked his lips. Maybe there was a more concrete reason why Nat and Sam hadn’t been invited to this discussion.

“Yes,” he said. “Do it.”

The next few minutes passed in a daze, as if all of his thoughts had been silenced. Tony led him to an empty lab table, and he sat at the end of it, the back of his knees pressed against the cold stainless steel. Tony fitted the prototype over his head, and the screen in front of his eyes flickered to life with a dizzy amount of flashing notifications.

He saw Tony tinted red, his face targeted by the suit, which identified him by name and offered the option of more information.

“So weird,” the other man muttered, shaking his head before moving on to Steve’s arm. He pulled it out in front of him, letting it rest on top of his thigh. Tony was silent as he tied a rubber strap just above his elbow, then flicked the soft skin in the bend of his arm with his finger.

“Anyone ever tell you you’ve got good veins, Cap?” he asked. Then the needle was sliding into him.

“Please,” Steve whispered, closing his eyes to the chaos of the digital screen in front of him. He tried to direct his voice to the emptiness in front of it, to what the suit couldn’t see.

He didn’t have the chance to open them again. He felt his body sway and be caught, strong hands lowering him back onto the table. He felt the cool steel against the back of his head. And then - blackness. 

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

There was a low roar. It had a rhythm to it, leisurely but perfectly in time, and every slow beat ended with a soft rush, fluid and soothing. As he listened, he realized he was breathing in time with it as he woke.

A breeze was ruffling the hair falling over his forehead. The roar and rush continued, and he licked his lips, tasting the saltiness of the cool air. Every part of his body told him he was safe, but he still hesitated, briefly, before opening his eyes.

The ocean stretched in front of him, dark and endless. The sun had just risen, making the crest of every wave shimmer white. The water was calm, and he lowered his gaze, dropping it from the horizon until he could see the waves breaking gently on the sand.

He stared, mesmerized, for a moment. It had been so long since he’d known peace like this, and it settled into his body like the pleasant ache of tiredness after a long, productive day. He could’ve continued staring for hours, he thought, but curiosity crept into his thoughts, getting the better of him.

He slowly shifted, turning to look around. As he moved, his toes sunk deeper into cool sand, and he glanced down, surprised by his bare feet. As he looked up, he followed the line of the beach until it disappeared into a haze of early morning fog. He continued turning, following the beach back until it ended in the clean line of a boardwalk, the wood planks sun-bleached and gray.

And behind that, the rise of distant buildings, obscured by fog. The dark outline of a Ferris wheel, not yet touched by the sun. The curves and dips of a wooden roller coaster. The rise of a delicate steel tower.

His mouth fell open. He knew exactly where he was.

And yet, it didn’t seem possible. Other than the dull roar of the ocean, it was quiet. Echoes of the hum of moving crowds tugged at his memory, the indistinguishable chatter of hundreds of people, but here there was no one. Not even seagulls calling out over the water.

He turned his gaze back toward the beach, and he saw him.

Standing there, hands stuffed into his pockets, white shirt rolled up over his forearms, as if he had been waiting there all along. He was too far away to really see in detail, but still the recognition was instant.

He was frozen for a moment, needing a few seconds to take him in, make sure that was he was real, that he didn’t disappear. But when he took his hands out of his pockets and opened them to him, tentatively, he ran.

His feet slid against the sand, but he didn’t care, and he didn’t stop even to look at him properly as he slammed into his chest.

Instantly strong arms were around him, crushing his shoulders. He didn’t think he could breathe, but when he did the smell of him was exactly as he remembered, cheap soap and cheaper cigarettes, and beneath that salt and cinnamon and the street after rainfall. His shirt was warm, and he could hear his heart hammering inside his chest.

Finally the arms loosened their hold, and he pulled back, looking up.

His face was exactly as he remembered, his mouth hanging open a little as he looked down at him, as if in awe. Steve imagined his expression must be the same.

“Bucky,” he said, nearly whimpering the name, despite himself. 

Bucky smiled down at him, slowly, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. But then, just as quickly, it faltered, and his mouth fell open again. Steve waited, sure he was about to say something.

He didn’t. Instead, he pulled him to his chest again, just as tightly, as if at any second he could be ripped away. 

When Bucky let go a second time, he lifted his hands and firmly cupped his face, his fingers parting into his hair and his thumbs settling against the line of his jaw.

Steve’s heart picked up pace, faltering when he met his friend’s gaze. His eyes were wide and wet, and he could see he was on the verge of tears.

“I tried to tell you,” he said, his voice threatening to break. “I tried to stop you.”

He held his face for a moment, his thumbs twitching. Steve’s mouth fell open, and for the first time, doubt washed over him. He remembered the slide of the needle into his arm, closing his eyes, falling back.

He broke his gaze from Bucky’s, not sure he could ask, not sure he could say anything. The other man pulled back his hands, releasing him, only to tug his whole body forward again.

He relaxed into the embrace, reassured by the strength of the arms around him. He willed himself not to be afraid, and it was possible, as he breathed in the scent of him, to forget why he’d felt that stab of doubt in the first place.

He listened to Bucky’s heartbeat, slowing as they both relaxed, both unwilling to pull away. 

Everything, in that moment, felt absolute. Felt right.

Maybe this was their fate.


	20. Chapter 20

Steve didn’t want to move. 

He didn’t want to move, for fear that everything would fall apart the moment he did. He couldn’t remember a time when they had been like this – just held each other, letting a lingering hug shift into something more. It was unfamiliar, but comfortable. Right.

He listened to Bucky’s breathing, slow and even, in time with the waves crashing on the sand. Nothing faded. It felt real.

It was, he decided. It had to be.

Bucky was the first to pull away, but not entirely. Just enough to speak quietly into his ear.

“I wanted to show you this place,” he said softly. “I thought if you could see it, it would convince you.”

It took a moment for Steve to find words. He looked up, searching his friend’s face, still in awe that he was here.

“Convince me?” he mumbled, finally. Bucky’s face looked torn, pained. It confused him, because it was so much the opposite of what he was feeling.

Bucky nodded. He reached out again, wrapping a hand gently around the back of his neck, and his stomach flipped at the touch. 

“To stop,” Bucky said simply. 

Steve felt his heart pick up pace, his mind edging into anxiety. He was nervous, suddenly, now that they were speaking, now that his friend’s eyes were so firmly on him. He was realizing, gradually, that everything felt different. The ease of their friendship, the casual comfort of just being in his presence, was gone.

He was restless. He wanted to crash into his arms again, tuck his head against his chest. He wanted to be touched, constantly.

He let out a slow breath, willing himself to be calm. He hadn’t seen Bucky – this Bucky – in so long. It made sense, that things would be different.

“I was never going to stop,” he replied. He straightened his shoulders, trying to convey absolute seriousness in his expression.

A corner of Bucky’s mouth turned up at that, an almost smile. He chuckled, and Steve nearly melted at the sound.

“You’re okay,” he said. He wanted to go on, the words running through him like rushing water. You’re okay, you’re here, I can touch you. We’re together now.

Bucky’s smile faltered a bit at that, but he nodded.

“I wanted to tell you that,” he went on. “I wanted to show you. That I could wait for you, here.”

That prompted Steve to look around again, briefly. He scanned his eyes across the water, then over to the boardwalk, the Ferris wheel, the coaster. The distant rise of buildings. All still and quiet, shrouded in fog.

“Where are we?” Steve asked. He watched as Bucky looked back toward the city, following his gaze, but his eyes were hollow. Distant. He didn’t answer.

“What do you mean, wait for me?” he pressed, after a moment. His friend turned back to him, smiling a little, even as his eyes withdrew further.

“You were all right, before,” he began, slowly. “You had Peggy. I know she – but you could find someone else. And you have people, who care about you. You have a life.”

Steve frowned, considering this. He clenched and unclenched his hands into fists at his sides.

“You’re saying,” he started, forcing himself to look Bucky in the face. “You’re saying you wanted me to go on living and leave you – here?”

He passed his gaze over the ocean again, the stillness, the quiet seeping into him. Suddenly, everything felt colder.

“You’re not supposed to be here, Steve,” Bucky urged. His voice was gentle, careful, but certain.

“Neither are you!” he snapped back. He recoiled immediately, horrified. He’d finally gotten him back, and already, they were fighting. He steadied himself.

“I can wait here,” Bucky said again, insistently. He reached out, grabbing both of Steve’s hands and holding them tightly as he continued. “Look at me. I’m fine. I’m not in pain.”

“But you’re alone,” Steve said. He intended for the words to be just as firm as Bucky’s voice, but instead they came out weak and imploring. Sadness twisted at his gut, and he clutched Bucky’s hands harder.

“I’m fine,” the other man repeated. “I’d wait for you.”

“But it doesn’t matter now, does it?” Steve questioned, suddenly. He didn’t let his hands go, even as the moment came where he could’ve dropped them. “You don’t have to.”

He looked into Bucky’s face, daring him to argue. His mouth had fallen open, his eyes wide and torn. Steve wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around him again.

“I’m glad it happened this way,” he went on. 

“Don’t say that,” Bucky snapped immediately. But he still didn’t let go of his hands.

“I am,” Steve insisted. He took in a steadying breath, smiling a little. “Aren’t you?”

Bucky’s expression withdrew again. He clenched his jaw. It was a look Steve remembered well, when they used to fight. It was determination.

“You don’t know what you’d give up,” he said, finally. “Steve, if you die –“

“If I die?” he repeated. 

He searched Bucky’s face, looking for answers, but all he saw in his light eyes was defeat, and sadness.

“If we aren’t dead,” he began slowly, “Then where –“

He stopped himself, his voice drifting off. He looked again out over the water, the waves still shimmering as they rocked beneath the early morning sun. It hadn’t risen higher. The light hadn’t changed.

He looked further, trying to see past the horizon, and he felt it. A pull, deep inside him, gentle but constant. He could imagine walking into the water, until he was breathing it. He could walk into the sun.

He turned and saw that Bucky had followed his gaze. He was staring, too, and his face had relaxed. The light reflected back in his eyes in tiny flickers of silver.

“Can we go there?” Steve asked hesitantly. 

He watched as Bucky swallowed, staring out over the water for a moment longer before turning back to him.

“I think so,” he answered. He looked down, and Steve followed his gaze down to their hands. They were still holding hands. He’d almost forgotten.

Suddenly, he realized that both were real. Bucky had his arm. He’d almost forgotten, too, that it should be any different.

Bucky rubbed his thumbs gently over the back of his hands, and he sighed at the touch.

“If you’ve been here all this time,” Steve asked, mesmerized, even as he spoke, by the soft brush of his thumbs ghosting over his skin, “Why didn’t you go before?”

He raised his eyes a little, watching as Bucky slowly smiled, but didn’t look up. He squeezed his hands a little tighter, before finally letting them go.

“Because I didn’t have you, punk,” he said.

“Oh,” Steve said, taking in a quick breath. Bucky raised his eyes, his smile breaking out fully, and he couldn’t stop himself from stepping forward again and falling into his chest.

It felt so good, to rest his head on his shoulder, to be so close. It wasn’t about reassuring himself that he was there anymore, holding onto him so he couldn’t be swept away. It was just comfort. It was impossible not to feel safe, happy, this way. 

And the best part was that Bucky seemed to want the contact just as much.

“Jerk,” he breathed back.

Maybe they didn’t need to go further. This felt, in so many ways, like it could be Heaven.

He pulled back, but just enough that he could watch Bucky’s face as he spoke.

“Is this what you meant, when you said you were in New York?” he asked. It felt strange to remember the brief messages he’d gotten over his devices. Like it had happened in another life.

“It was hard to explain, well,” Bucky replied, throwing out his arm in a gesture that referred to everything around them, “This.”

“Where are we?” Steve asked again. This time, there was no fear in his voice, no doubt. The answer almost didn’t matter, but he was still curious what it would be.

Bucky shrugged his shoulders, turning to look back out over the water.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “Someplace between. There could be something more, something better. But for now, it’s enough.”

He looked back at him, his smile turning strangely sad.

“Kind of like us, huh?” he said, his eyes breaking from Steve’s gaze.

His mouth fell open at that. He wanted to ask what he meant. He repeated the words in his mind, sure there was something more behind them. The question gnawed at him, but he knew he couldn’t ask, and risk being wrong. Not when he finally had Bucky back. Not when he finally had everything he wanted.

Instead, he stepped forward, resting his hand on his shoulder. He’d done it so many times before, but it felt different now. Restrained. Nothing like falling into his arms.

He turned again toward the low sun, the shimmering waves. The light still tugged at him, and he sighed, letting it swell over his doubts. Somehow, he knew that if they went there, everything would be okay.

He squeezed Bucky’s shoulder gently.

“If we go,” he said. “We go together.”

Bucky stared back at him, his expression unreadable. He looked hesitant, as if he wanted to say more, but finally he nodded.

“We go together,” he agreed softly.

Steve released his shoulder, reaching down to take his hand instead.

“I’m ready,” he said. And it felt true, as Bucky slipped his fingers through his, pulling their palms together.

“I’m –“ Bucky started. He watched as he licked his lips, staring down intently at their hands. He looked back up, his eyes wide and unsure.

Steve frowned at the fear there. He smiled, hoping it was reassuring.

“It’s okay,” he said gently. “If you’re not ready, we don’t have to go. We can stay here.”

“It’s just that,” Bucky began, then cut himself off. He looked down, clearly nervous as he licked his lips again. “Before we go… there are things I never told you.”

Steve’s smile fell away. He hadn’t expected to hear anything like that. It seemed almost impossible, that anything could still matter. That there could be any secrets between them that could make a difference.

“Okay,” he said, firmly. He tried not to let surprise seep into his voice. “Tell me now.”

He watched as Bucky took in a steadying breath, waiting. As he did, he felt the wind pick up slightly, the breeze ruffling roughly through the other man’s short hair.

Bucky noticed it, too. It was enough to stop him, and he never spoke, pausing instead to listen to the wind. 

It was a subtle change. But then, since the moment Steve had arrived there – nothing had changed. Not the wind, not the light, not the sounds.

“Something’s wrong,” Bucky whispered, turning toward the ocean.   
He followed his gaze. The waves had gotten rougher. As he watched, hazy clouds began to roll over the sun.

A chill ran down his spine, and involuntarily, he gripped Bucky’s hand harder.

“What’s happening?” he asked, not bothering to filter the fear out of his voice. The other man only continued to stare out over the water, his eyes widening. He looked as afraid as he did, as he turned back to him. 

“I don’t know,” he said, meeting his eyes.

Steve took a step back, pulling Bucky along with him. He didn’t know what to do, but his first instinct was to run, maybe to find shelter for them, somewhere.

His heel sunk down into the sand, and it nearly engulfed his whole foot before he jerked it back again.

Bucky’s eyes continued to widen, until finally they focused in recognition.

“Steve,” he said, his voice hollow. “I think you have to go back.”

He froze, the meaning of the words failing to hit him until panic was already gripping his chest. 

“No,” he said. His feet were sinking slowly, and he tried to lift them in vain, stepping in place, but it was hopeless. The only solid thing near him was Bucky.

“It’s okay,” the other man was saying. Steve met his eyes, and they calmed him for a brief moment, the panic abating only to surge back with twice as much force. “This is good, Steve, you’re – you’re going to be okay.”

“I don’t want to go,” he said desperately. His feet were sinking deeper into the cool sand, closing up over his ankles. “I belong here with you!”

“You don’t,” Bucky said quickly. He looked away briefly, and Steve saw his jaw clench. When he turned back to him, his eyes were hard.

“Listen to me,” he continued. “Steve – stop looking for me.”

“No,” he said, automatically. “I can’t –“

“You can,” Bucky said insistently. “I told you. I’ll wait for you.”

“I can’t leave you alone here,” he said. He clutched at his hand desperately, feeling the wind pick up around them. He thought the light was fading, but he couldn’t look away from Bucky’s face.

“I’ve been selfish,” he said. He was speaking quickly now, and that only fed Steve’s panic. They were running out of time. “I’m sorry. I brought you here, I did this, and I won’t let you die for me. Stop looking.”

Suddenly he remembered how’d he gotten here, and why. The needle, the prototype –

“Bucky, please,” he said. He was begging, and he didn’t care. “Show me where you are. Where your body is. I need to find you.”

He watched as Bucky sucked in a breath, the wind whipping his hair wildly.

“No,” he said.

The sand was pooling around his knees, and he had to tilt his head back further and further to see Bucky’s face. Finally, the other man knelt in front of him, the ground impossibly solid under his weight.

“Please,” he said again. He needed words, better words to convince him, but the horror he felt made it hard to speak. He couldn’t be leaving. They hadn’t had enough time.

“Your friends care about you,” Bucky said, frowning down at him. “I see that. Let them convince you.”

“I won’t stop,” he said. He was squeezing his hand so tightly, he wondered if the other man could even feel it anymore.

“I’ll wait for you,” Bucky promised. He lifted his free hand, impossibly flesh and blood, and cupped his jaw. “We’ll meet up at the end of the line.”

“No!” Steve nearly shouted. The sand was swelling up around him faster now, a heavy weight on his thighs. “No, that’s not –“

“Steve,” Bucky said firmly. He pulled back his hand, releasing his jaw. “Let me go.”

He loosened his other hand, the one still clutched in his. Steve tried to stop him, to squeeze it harder, but his chest was being swallowed up, and he felt his fingers slide away.

“Please,” he begged. “Please –“

It was dark now, and he felt himself falling into unconsciousness. Still, he raised his hand as high as he could, reaching out.

“Let me go.”

Bucky’s voice echoed around him, and he sobbed into the blackness.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

He slowly opened his eyes, blinking at the brightness. Awareness filtered into his limbs, and he realized he was lying down, and warm, a blanket tucked over his chest. The mattress beneath him was soft, cradling his weight.

“Oh, thank God,” a voice said, feminine and familiar.

Then there was a hushed quiet, until he opened his eyes fully. Sam came into focus, hovering above him.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Just stay still, all right? Don’t try to get up yet.”

Everything felt hazy, and he nearly closed his eyes again, except that as his gaze drifted he caught sight of Tony.

He was further away than Sam, hovering uncomfortably next to the bed, arms crossed. He didn’t meet his eyes.

Realization flooded him, and suddenly, he remembered.

He surged forward, reaching out and grabbing Tony roughly by the arm, tugging him toward the bed.

“Send me back,” he said, staring into the man’s eyes. His own widened in response, and he pulled back, but Steve didn’t let go.

“Woah, relax,” he heard Sam say, putting a firm hand on his shoulder, but he ignored it.

“Please,” he said again. He gripped Tony’s arm harder, his nails digging into the flesh. “Please. Send me back.”

“He’s delirious,” the female voice said softly, and then Natasha was walking into view, leaning over him next to Tony.

“Steve,” she said firmly, and he frowned. The skin beneath her eyes was dark, and she was pale, paler than usual. “You’ve been out for two days.”

Two days.

Still, he didn’t let go of Tony’s arm. 

“Send me back,” he repeated.


	21. Chapter 21

“Steve, we just want you to take a step back from this.”

He looked down at his hands, wide and strong. He curled and uncurled his fingers, relaxing them in and out of fists. If he focused hard enough, he could almost remember how tightly Bucky had held them, feel the ghost of his thumbs brushing over the skin on the back of his hands. Only they’d been smaller –

“Steve.”

He glanced up, meeting Natasha’s firm gaze.

“I told you,” he said, rehashing the words he’d said so many times. His voice was as hard as her eyes, but he no longer cared. He was tired of repeating himself. “There isn’t time for that.”

“We’re making time,” she said. The words were cold, with a harsh finality he hadn’t heard from her in what felt like a long time. “You could have died.”

“I didn’t,” he said, again. 

“You didn’t know what that drug could do,” she went on. “You didn’t know anything about it. Anything. You just said yes.”

“It was worth it,” he mumbled, quietly.

“Was it?” she asked. She moved closer to the bed, and he fought the urge to flinch. “Do you know how low your heartrate dropped? It got so slow, at one point, we thought –“

“He was there with me,” he said, trying to make his voice firm.

“You think he was there with you,” she shot back. It made his breath hitch, to hear her deny it so forcefully, but he tried to show no reaction.

“He was,” he said. And he remembered the gentle rise and fall of his chest under his cheek, the warmth of his skin through the linen shirt, his smell, his voice. Too much detail for a dream.

“It doesn’t matter,” she snapped. He had looked away, but from the corner of his vision he saw her twist restlessly, as if she wanted to storm away from him but stopped herself. “We’re not drugging you into oblivion again so that you can have another hallucination.”

He pursed his lips at that. They were past arguing; he knew that. This wouldn’t go like it had before. She was beyond convincing.

“It isn’t your choice,” he said, carefully.

He watched as she sucked in a deep breath, clearly holding back words. She shot her head around, her vibrant hair fanning out, to look pointedly at Sam.

As if on cue, he stepped forward. Steve looked down at his hands again, trying not to snap. Not to feel cornered.

“You can’t expect us to just stand by while you risk your life,” he said gently. The words were so imploring, filled with so much obvious care, that he hated not being able to relent. To give up and do what they asked.

“I don’t,” he said. And he didn’t. Not anymore. “You’re free to go, both of you.”

“Come on, man,” Sam said immediately. “You know it doesn’t work like that.”

“It should,” he said, a little bitterly. He looked up, forcing himself to meet the other man’s eyes. “Walk away. I won’t hold it against you.”

“We’re going together,” Natasha said, and his attention flickered back to her. For a moment, her tone had relented, but with her next words the finality had returned. “We’re flying back to D.C. tomorrow, as soon as you get medical clearance.”

“I won’t go,” he snapped, indignant at the thought of them, marching him back onto the private jet like a prisoner.

“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” she said. She stared him down, and his eyes hardened, wishing he had the energy to return her glare properly. “Stark is out.”

“It’s true,” Sam said, frowning as he saw Steve’s eyes widen. “There’s no reason to stay.”

He was speechless, for a moment. Tony had baited him, given him the drug like it was candy, knowing it could go wrong. And now that it had, he’d tossed him out, the forgotten result of a failed experiment.

“Just come back with us,” Sam continued, his voice still so easy to hear, and hard to argue. “We can take a minute. Figure out another way around this. A safer way.”

He thought about the hours he’d spent in his apartment, agonizing over this. Trying desperately to come up with a solution, and grasping at nothing. This was the closest he’d gotten.

There wasn’t another way.

“Okay,” he said, his voice numb.

“Great,” Sam said, his voice flush with relief. He took Steve by the shoulder, squeezing it firmly, and he tried his best not to shudder under the touch.

“Great,” he mumbled back. He watched as Natasha straightened up, flashing Sam a brief look of gratitude.

“Just rest,” she said, softly. Almost contrite, for all the harshness of her earlier words. But not quite.

“Okay,” he repeated.

As they left the room, he tilted his head back, staring up into the white ceiling, swallowing at the nothingness there.

He lowered his head, realizing it was exactly how he felt. Like nothing.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

In the end, he slept.

He hoped for a dream, but it was a thin hope. After what Bucky had said, how he’d released his hand, letting him slide back into the darkness, back into this –

He didn’t think he would give him a dream.

But when something woke him, jarring him back into reality with his body tensed and his senses at their peak, he immediately thought it might be him.

The room was dark, the only light glowing behind the closed blinds in harsh slashes of gray-gold. The city outside.

He sat up slowly, afraid to turn on the light.

“Bucky?” he said. His voice was heavy with sleep, or maybe sadness. 

He waited, his fingers twitching where they rested on the sheets.

Nothing.

He settled back, swallowing hard. The silence pounded in his ears, and he resisted the urge to cup his hands over them and block it out. Bucky wasn’t there.

But, as he blinked slowly, trying to quell the shuddering disappointment in his chest, his eyes ghosted over something, barely visible except for the lines of light crossing over it. 

A piece of paper, on the nightstand.

He leaned over, picking it up and flicking on the lamp.

It was a picture.

It took up the whole page, and at first, it looked like nothing. Like static on a dead television screen. But then he narrowed his eyes, looking closer.

Certain areas were darker. It was mathematical, and precise, tiny dots and dashes that were too perfect for human hands, but it was also there. An image, where the dots came together and drifted apart, darkened and lightened.

His mouth fell open. He lifted his right hand, tracing the delicate curve of the roller coaster. He could almost see the fog.

It was beautiful.

He flipped the paper over, and on the back were numbers. Handwritten, in black ink.

40°34′30″N 73°58′44″W.

Coordinates.

He turned the paper over again, marveling at the picture. He touched it, sighing at the perfect detail beneath the obscurity.

He needed a plan.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ----

 

Within an hour, he had one. 

Or, at least, the beginnings of one. The outline of a plan. But he needed to act quickly, before the sun rose.

And he would need help.

He turned the digital recorder over in his hand, letting his fingertips run over the smooth plastic. 

Please, he thought. Just this once, don’t be as stubborn as I am.

He took in a steadying breath, trying his best to choose his words carefully.

“Bucky,” he began, slowly. “I know you can hear me. I know you’re here. You’re always here, even if I can’t hear you, or see you, or touch – and I remember. I know what you said.”

He swallowed, tensing his hand around the device.

“You told me to give up,” he continued. “But the prototype works. It knew where we were, it saw it and – it works. And I’m so close, I’m so close to getting you back.”

Breathe, he thought. He forced himself to do just that, to not let emotion overcome him.

“But I need you to help me,” he said. “I need you to disable the security system, like you did before. I need to get back to the lab. I need another shot at this and I – I need your help. I have to find you.”

He said the last words forcefully, gripping the recorder like a vice.

“Please,” he went on. “I need this. I need you.”

He paused a moment, pressing the button to begin the recording.

“Tell me you’ll help me,” he said.

He let a few seconds go on, long seconds as his hand trembled in front of him.

He stopped the recording, rewound it. Pressed play.

‘Tell me you’ll help me,’ his voice repeated, hollow and pleading.

He waited, blooding draining from his face as he listened to the long seconds of silence. Finally, the recording ended.

His hand tightened around the device, and he fought the urge not to throw it to the floor, shatter it into a thousand plastic pieces.

Instead, he forced himself to set it carefully on the nightstand.

He still had to try.

Tucked inside the open closet was his shield. It followed him everywhere, by default, although he hadn’t expected to need it here. Not this way.

He’d made it this far, without Bucky.

He could do this alone.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In many ways I'm so sad that this story is coming to an end. At times it felt like it would just go on forever, and now that it's getting close to being finished I'm almost afraid to tie up the loose ends and let it go. I'm scared my next story won't be as good or as well received because, despite my tendency to be incredibly self-deprecating when it comes to my writing, I've grown proud of this. I will miss writing this story. It's like sending a child off into the world, one that became a better and stronger person than I ever expected, and now I have to say goodbye. And to all of you, as well. But at least not for a little while longer.

Steve stepped out into the hallway, calmly turning his head to look in one direction, and then the other. Instinctively, he tightened his grip on the shield at his side, but it wasn’t necessary. There was no one here.

His feet padded lightly on the carpet as he made a swift right turn, approaching the elevator. 

As he reached out, pressing the button indicating that he wanted to go up, he couldn’t help but wonder if Tony had already been notified by JARVIS that he had left his room. At any moment, the perfect quiet of the Tower could shatter around him, and he would need to fight his way out.

The doors opened before him, and he stepped inside. He pressed the button not for the lab floor, but one floor beneath it.

He was vaguely aware that it was wrong to be this calm. Every inch of his skin was hyper-aware, the muscles of his arm relaxed into the weight of the shield. All that mattered was his next move, the next step. Nothing else.

It was a rare kind of focus, the kind he usually felt only in the heat of battle, when not a second could be compromised with indecision. It was his body overtaking his mind, and it only happened when absolutely necessary.

The elevator doors were sliding open again. He made another right, heading toward the stairwell. Still, no one had come for him, but he kept himself braced. Maybe Natasha had already slipped out of bed, just seconds behind him. He felt confident he could subdue Sam, even Tony, but he had his doubts about her.

There was a security device mounted at the entrance to the stairwell. He let his eyes fall on the black screen, the keypad beneath it. He raised his shield until it was perpendicular to it.

The sound as he slammed the shield down, slicing through the screen in a violent spray of sparks, didn’t startle him, but it did shift something inside him. As he pulled back, cutting through the bright metal of the electronics again, and again, and again, his heartrate picked up, and he breathed in deeply through his nose.

It was satisfying. He took a moment to glance at the tangle of wires and circuits and shattered plastic next to the door, even as he pushed it open effortlessly. It felt good to act. It felt good to do something, even destroy.

He jogged up the flight of stairs, pausing at another security screen. He gave this one the same treatment, gritting his teeth as he thrust the edge of his shield through it, stopping only when it fell off the wall as easily as an abused picture frame.

The doors to the next floor opened easily, and he stepped over the threshold, pausing only a moment before running down the hall. The doors to the lab, stainless steel and shining, approached him.

As he came to a quick stop in front of them, they silently slid open.

He glanced uncertainly toward the security panel next to the doors. It was blank.

This was a trap, it had to be. 

Either that, or Bucky – but he didn’t think it was Bucky. He hadn’t felt Bucky at his side.

He pursed his lips, stepping forward. It didn’t matter. Even if the rest of the Avengers were on the other side, waiting to drag him down and drill sense back into him, it didn’t matter. What he needed was beyond this door. It was the endgame, his only goal. There was no way around the fight.

He entered the lab, surveying the broad tables, stacked with familiar equipment. Sitting on one, near the center, was the small, stainless steel case holding the vials.

It wasn’t obscured by mechanical parts and tools as it had been the first time he’d watched Tony pull it forward. It was alone on the table, perfectly visible.

Yes, his mind affirmed, this was definitely a trap, but there was nothing and no one here to stop him, and if he could only get it in his bloodstream fast enough –

He strode toward the table quickly, dropping his shield and sliding the box toward him, clicking it open immediately. The vials were inside, lined up perfectly, two missing. He picked up the syringe, licking his lips as he punched the needle through the lid of the third vial, drawing up the clear fluid.

He didn’t bother to wrap the rubber strap around his arm and bulge the vein, there wasn’t time for that. He dug the needle into his arm, aiming for the brightest line of blue inside his elbow, and winced. He watched as a flood of purple rushed beneath his skin.

He pulled back the needle, ignoring the bead of crimson that immediately formed where it had pieced his skin, quickly coming to a head and spilling down his arm in a ribbon of bright red.

“Shit,” he whispered, and he was surprised at the desperation, the urgency in his own voice. He’d blown the vein. But there wasn’t time, any second – he raised the needle again, transferring it into his left hand and hovering it over the curve of his right elbow –

“Need some help with that?”

His head snapped around immediately, even though he recognized the voice.

Tony was standing halfway across the lab, watching him. He wasn’t wearing the suit. In fact, he looked perfectly relaxed, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, as if he’d just stumbled upon Steve in his kitchen, struggling to open a jar.

He swallowed, not lowering the needle.

“Where are the others?” he asked, lowly. He was so close. If he could just get it in a vein this time, he could inject it before Tony even reached him.

“Sleeping,” Tony answered easily. “I assume. If, you know, the Widow does that sort of thing, I’ve never actually seen it for myself.”

He glanced around the rest of the lab, not believing it. But they did appear to be alone.

“Oh, come on,” Tony said after a moment, interrupting his eyes’ frantic search. “Who do you think left you that printout? A ghost?”

When Steve only continued to stare at him, he rolled his eyes, walking forward.

“I assume we’re still trying to get the right location,” he went on. “Although, the idea of HYDRA running an amusement park would be kind of cool. In, you know, a really creepy way.”

“Are you saying you’re going to help me?” Steve asked, incredulous. He was still holding the needle, letting it hover inches above his skin.

“Yep,” Tony answered quickly. “I told JARVIS to give you access to the lab floor via the elevator. I didn’t think you’d get all sneaky and go batshit on my security equipment. I do have better things to do than fix things, you know.”

“Why?” Steve asked, slowly. He still hadn’t wrapped his mind around the realization that Tony wasn’t against him. He still half-believed it could be a trap.

“Here, give me your good arm,” Tony said. “Jesus, you’re dripping blood everywhere. I’ll have to bandage that shit up as soon as you’re out.”

Steve obediently held out his right arm, watching, still in shock, as Tony quickly wrapped the rubber strap just above his elbow.

“Tell me why,” he said. It took the other man a moment to answer. He was staring at the veins in Steve’s arm, trying, Steve guessed, to identify the best point of entry.

“You may not know this about me,” Tony said, finally. Steve passed off the syringe to him, and watched as he aimed the needle parallel to his forearm. “Not a big fan of the word ‘no’.”

“That’s not an answer,” he insisted. His heart began to race as he realized that Tony was ready to inject him.

The other man sighed. 

“Does it really matter why?” he asked.

No, Steve’s mind answered immediately. It didn’t. He was going back, and that was all that mattered.

“Look,” Tony continued. “We don’t have time to chat about this. Just get it right this time, okay? I don’t think we can get a third round. Word is that Mom and Dad got desperate and reached out to Fury. They have serious concerns about your mental state.”

Steve sucked in a breath at that, frowning. 

“Oh,” Tony went on, as if he’d just remembered. “And I adjusted down the dosage so you won’t be out as long. But that might give you a little less time in dreamland.”

Now his heart really did begin to race. As if he wasn’t under enough pressure already, to make this work.

“You ready?” Tony asked, finally, after giving him a moment to let what he’d said sink in.

Steve wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever been ready, if he ever would be ready. But on the other side of the needle was Bucky.

“Yes,” he said. Tony didn’t wait. He immediately felt the tug of the needle against his skin, the briefest spark of pain before it slid into his vein.

He closed his eyes slowly, already reaching for the words.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

As soon as he felt his feet sink into the cool sand, the tension bled from his muscles. 

He let himself pause a moment before opening his eyes, listening to the slow rush of the waves. He wished, with a pitiful stab of want, that he could stay, that he could simply seek out the warmth of Bucky’s arms around him and forget. Stay, and forget time, and rescue, and the gnawing question of the rest of his life.

But there wasn’t time.

He let his eyes flutter open, wincing at the brightness of the sun, silver-white behind the vast expanse of shimmering waves. He turned his head, letting his eyes wander down the familiar stretch of beach. It was empty.

He turned in the other direction, eyes combing the gray sand, pristine and untouched until it disappeared under the tall grass framing the boardwalk.

He was alone.

He shifted his eyes frantically between the two directions, hoping Bucky might suddenly appear, the way he had the first time. But time stretched on, and he was nowhere.

The panic that rose in his chest was as effective as a hand choking him by the throat. He had been so focused on coming back, on just reaching this place again, that he hadn’t really considered the possibility that Bucky might not meet him here.

He hated himself, then, hated that, if he’d had only one chance to make Bucky see, make him understand how much he needed this, needed him, he’d wasted it.

He took a few useless steps forward, tears burning at the edge of his vision.

“Bucky,” he said, focusing on the sun in his absence. “Bucky, please, I – I don’t want to be alone.”

He closed his eyes, setting the tears free to fall down his cheeks. It was then, in the darkness behind his eyes, that he felt it.

Strong arms, wrapping around his shoulders and chest from behind. Warm breath against his ear.

“I told you once not to do anything stupid,” a voice said, and Steve all but collapsed into it, the familiarity. He crossed his own arms over Bucky’s, trapping them against his chest, although the other man made no attempt to pull away.

“And you’re surprised I didn’t listen?” he replied. He let his head fall back against Bucky’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of him, feeling his chest rise and fall against his back. Already, a part of his mind was whispering to him, reminding him of the time he didn’t have, but he couldn’t resist. Just one more moment. Just one more memory.

“Punk,” Bucky’s voice whispered. His arms loosened their hold slightly, and Steve forced himself to take advantage of it, dropping his arms and turning around to face him.

Still, he didn’t step back, hovering close to the taller man’s chest. He looked up at him, his face as handsome as he remembered it, his eyes distant, but a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Buck,” he said, and his heart clenched. He wanted to savor it, every second, and he couldn’t. “I don’t know how much time I have here. I need you to listen to me.”

“Listen to me first,” Bucky replied, after a moment’s hesitation. He raised his hand, slipping it gently behind his neck, barely touching him, his fingertips brushing the blond hair at the back of his head.

Steve’s eyes widened. It was a strange way to be touched, and it made him pause, but he couldn’t think on it. He had to keep going.

“No,” he said, as firmly as he could. “No, I need to say this –“

“You need to know what you’re trying to rescue,” Bucky said slowly. He said each word precisely, as if he’d thought on them for a long, long time. “What you’re trying to bring back into your life.”

“No, I don’t,” Steve shot back. “Buck, anything you did as the Soldier – you have to know that wasn’t you, that isn’t you, isn’t now, never was. Anything you did, you gotta know it wasn’t your fault, and I forgive you. I will forgive you.”

He watched as the muscles in Bucky’s jaw tensed, his eyes darkening.

“That isn’t what I meant,” he said, carefully.

“Just please, listen,” Steve went on, because he had to say the words, the right words, to convince him, and at any moment the world could literally collapse beneath his feet and pull him back. “I know you think I was okay, after you – after you died. That I was able to go on. And you’re right, I tried to do the right thing, I tried to protect people because I had strength they didn’t. And Peggy – but Buck, that was trying to live, not living.”

He took in a quick breath, meeting Bucky’s eyes, needing to be sure that they were focused on him, that he was listening. And he was. His lips had fallen open a little, but he said nothing.

Afraid of an interruption, Steve rushed on.

“But that was when I thought you were dead,” he continued. “You’re not dead. You’re out there, somewhere, and I don’t think I could even try living, now, knowing that. There wouldn’t be a single second when I wasn’t wondering if you were still on this Earth, if you were hurt, if you were in pain – I’d spend every moment of my life wondering what would’ve happened if I’d been able to save you. I can’t live without doing everything in my power to bring you home. I can’t let go of this. I can’t let go of you. I know it’s a risk, but there’d be no life left for me if I didn’t try.”

“That’s –“ Bucky began, at first, but stopped. He licked his lips, a nervous habit that Steve remembered well. He watched as the other man took in a steadying breath.

“Show me where you are,” Steve said. He was begging, he made no secret of that.

“Let me say this first,” Bucky said, finally. The panic in his chest, ever present, seized.

“We don’t have time,” he whispered frantically. “Just, please –“

“No,” Bucky said firmly. “I need to say it. I need you to hear it, before you go, before you put yourself in danger. Because it might change your mind, yeah, but also because – if you die, trying to take me back, this might be my last chance to tell you.”

Everything in Steve’s mind screamed at him not to listen, to beg and fight for the reason he’d come here, for the location. Nothing, nothing seemed like it could compare in importance to the visceral reality of needing to rescue Bucky’s body.

And yet, a part of him slowed down at his words, paused. He waited, holding his pleas back and letting him speak.

“What you said, that’s,” Bucky started, slowly. “That’s how I felt. Not at first. After I tried, for a few years, not to want it. I thought I could be the kind of man you are, I thought I could sacrifice myself. Told myself I was doing it for you, that if I never said anything I could be your friend and you could meet a nice girl, you know, get married, settle down, all of that. I couldn’t figure how I could ever keep that from you. I even tried to find the girl.”

Steve’s heart had been wiped clean. He listened to the words, open mouthed, but he managed not to feel anything. His mind was white.

“And I tried to live,” Bucky continued. “Kind of gave up on a girl for me. Figured that wouldn’t be honest. I tried, but – I realized eventually that I’d always wonder. I’d never live a day in my life not wondering what would’ve happened if I’d said something, even if it was selfish, even if it was wrong. Even if I lost you.”

He paused for a second, taking in another shuddering breath before going on, and Steve watched him, eyes wide, mesmerized, in shock, hardly breathing himself.

“I made a deal with God,” Bucky said, the words rushing out of him. “I promised I’d tell you if I came home from the war. But then he pulled a fast one on me, brought you to me instead. And then it became, if we both make it home –“

Steve couldn’t hold back the fresh tears that swelled behind his eyes. He couldn’t deny what the words meant, even if they didn’t quite sink in, even if he didn’t quite believe them. His mind wandered briefly to Natasha, the impossibility of it all making him wonder, for a second, if he really was just hallucinating all of this.

“You know what happened then,” he went on. “They took me. But now we have this, this chance, and, well – I figure God did hold up his end of the bargain. We should both be dead, we know it, but we’re here. And now I gotta tell you.”

Steve didn’t know if he could stand to hear the words. Already he was paralyzed, torn between falling to his knees and rushing forward, clinging to him, smothering every inch of space between them.

“If you find me,” Bucky said. Steve couldn’t believe he was still talking, couldn’t believe any of it. “I’ll be your friend, if you need that. If you want that. And if you don’t want to do it, to come for me, I want you to know that I’ll under –“

“Bucky,” Steve said hoarsely, his voice nearly a whimper. He couldn’t stand it any longer. He closed the space between them, but hesitantly, reaching out and digging his hands into the warm fabric of his shirt. “I’m going to find you. Either that, or I’ll happily die trying.”

He swallowed, trying to push down the lump that was fast forming in his throat. He didn’t know if he could say more, but he knew, after a moment, that he had to. They were out of time.

“I want that,” he said, his voice quiet, but sure. “I want this, after. Bucky, I –“

He tightened his grip on Bucky’s shirt, resisting the urge to hide his head inside the curve between his shoulder and throat.

“I need you too,” he finished. He ran his teeth over his lower lip, hesitantly looking up.

The look in Bucky’s eyes, as he stared down at him, was indescribable. Steve thought he remembered seeing something like that look before, briefly, after he had managed to rescue him and, reaching camp, Bucky had encouraged everyone to cheer for Captain America.

That look had been hollow, like he was watching Steve being ripped from him and given instead to the entire world. The look in his eyes now, wet and shimmering with tears, was the opposite. It was disbelief and utter joy, because now Steve was giving himself to him, and only him.

Steve tilted his chin up, unsure, but it felt like only a half second before Bucky was kissing him.

If he had melted into his arms before, he surrendered completely now. Their kiss was desperate, frantic and needy and deep in a way he’d never imagined. He felt Bucky’s arms encircle his waist, pulling him closer, and he was overwhelmed, in every way, by the warmth and taste of his best friend.

Steve raised his hands, letting them thread into Bucky’s hair. It was long, and thick, and tangled, the knots catching on his fingers so that he had to move his hands carefully.

When they finally pulled apart, hearts pounding, Steve simply stood for a moment, allowing himself to catch his breath. 

He opened his eyes slowly. They were nose to nose.

His eyes were cast downward, and the first thing he saw was Bucky’s chest, heaving gently in and out. The white shirt was gone, and Steve couldn’t stop himself from staring at the scars, spilling out from beneath the seam of his metal arm. They were raised, thick, pink and white and stretching over his tan skin like ruined spiderwebs.

He forced himself to break his gaze away from them, slowly working his hands out of Bucky’s long hair. He met the other man’s eyes briefly, still wide but darker now, calm and knowing.

He rested his hands on Bucky’s shoulders instead, ignoring the chill that ran up his spine as the fingers of one hand settled over ice cold metal. He turned, knowing what he would see.

It was the place he’d drawn, the place he’d seen in the dream, through Bucky’s eyes. The dusty ground, the dry grass, the barren plants. The building, square and non-descript and in ruin, its utility doors blocked by a pile of debris, rocks and fragments of cement, that looked like it had been stacked there deliberately.

He tried to memorize every detail, even as he fought the urge to turn back to Bucky.

“They took me underground,” the other man said lowly. Steve tightened his grip on his shoulders, ignoring the cold as he leaned forward.

“I’ll find you,” he repeated. “This isn’t the end, Bucky.”

He felt the earth soften beneath his feet, and he held on a little tighter.

Bucky seemed to sense it, too, and his eyes widened sadly with the realization.

“Wait,” he said suddenly. He reached up and snatched one of Steve’s hands, clutching it between them. “There’s something else I need to –“

Steve could’ve laughed at that, almost, because what else, what else, could there ever possibly be? Nothing could be more important than the knowledge Bucky had just given him. Instead, he shook his head.

“Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter,” Steve insisted. He reached for Bucky’s other hand, the metal one, and was relieved when he was allowed to take it. He intended to hold on as long as he could. Already, the daylight was becoming dim.

“It does –“ Bucky began, but Steve cut him off.

“It doesn’t,” he said. “Nothing does. Just please, kiss me again, before I wake up.”

Bucky hesitated, torn, but then Steve took a step forward, his foot collapsing into the ground enough to make him stumble.

He met his eyes forcefully, not wanting to beg for it, and the other man relented, crushing their mouths together again.

The first kiss had felt like falling, falling in the best way. And now Steve found that he really was, the darkness behind his eyes becoming indistinguishable from something more consuming. 

He felt Bucky’s lips break from his, but they returned immediately, pressing against his cheek, his forehead, his hair. He sighed, whimpering as they became softer, and his body became lighter, and the darkness emptier.

The last kiss barely brushed his ear, and then he could hear nothing, see nothing.

He was going back. He would finish this, so they could start again.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear God - I actually managed to update this story. It's only been four months, right? - laughs nervously - But there was Christmas and ... yeah, I have no excuses really. It should be a longer chapter given that insultingly huge gap but it was either post this or wait and post a really long chapter and - yeah, I just thought, oh why not. I'm not sure if I should bake myself a cake in celebration or crawl back in shame under the rock that is the fragile excuse for my life. Probably the latter. But hopefully not for another four months.

“Wake up, Cap. We’re going to Disneyland.”

He took in a slow breath through his nose, feeling his eyelids twitch involuntarily. There was something behind them – a brightness, oozing into the black in neon shadows, but he couldn’t open them. Couldn’t move.

“You’re thinking of Disney _world_.” Another voice, this one lower, edgier. Annoyed, but resigned. Familiar. “Disney _land_ is in California.”

“He doesn’t know that.”

A beat of silence, and then something blunt was nudging into his bicep. Once, twice.

“Leave him,” a voice said. A third voice, cutting and feminine. “It’s going to take a minute for him to come out of it.”

“Awe,” the first voice said. A name gnawed at the edges of his mind, just out of reach. “He’s practically awake already, I’m just helping him along. I can’t wait to see his face –“

He tried moving his hand, curling his fingers. They twitched, brushing against something soft before the nerves burst into a thousand pins and needles, stabbing in waves from his palm to his wrist. The voices were still talking.

“ – take all the credit for this.”

“It was my technology.”

“Great. I’m sure when this is over, he’ll be eternally grateful, and you two can be best friends forever.”

“That sounds suspiciously like jealousy, my fine feathered friend. Other fine feathered friend, I should say – you know someone else already cornered the bird name thing, right? What are you gonna do after we actually rescue this guy?”

“If you can hear me, Cap, please just wake up. I need an excuse to end this conversation.”

“Dead best friend from childhood resurrected from the twenties? Even with the homicidal thing in play, you know you can’t compete with that.”

“World War II was – you know what, okay. Just, okay. You win. Thank you, Tony, for saving the day with your weird dream spying technology.”

“You are welcome.”

A low sigh, or was that – he heard a groan, took in another haggard breath as he struggled to shift his shoulders, to sit up. It took a moment for him to realize that the noises were coming from him.

He heard something else – a rush of footsteps, stammered curses of surprise – and then he was finally opening his eyes, as heavy as if they’d been swollen shut. It was a familiar feeling, and in his muddled brain he half expected to see his mother sitting there with a disapproving frown, or Bucky, damp cloth outstretched.

“Disneyland?” he mumbled.

The first person he saw was Natasha. She was half-turned toward him, far away, past the end of the bed. The dark contours of her suit glowed in the artificial light, and as she met his eyes, she clipped her utility belt around her hips with a heavy snap.

“Not exactly,” she said, giving him the briefest of smiles.

“It’s not the worst idea, though,” another voice said, and he struggled to turn his head. It felt like rolling over a boulder. Gradually, Tony came into view. He had pushed a chair up to the bed, a laptop open on his splayed thigh. “We could swing by there after we pick him up. Get him a balloon or something. It’s going to take a whole lot of happy to undo all that HYDRA.”

“I know in your own way you’re just as glad as any of us that this worked but – please – for the love of God – shut up.”

Behind him, slowly coming into focus – Sam. He tried to speak, to say his name, but all that came out was a soft grunt. He closed his eyes, falling back into the pillow for a second, trying to gather himself.

“Hey,” Sam’s voice said, hovering closer now. “Just take your time, all right?”

“Yeah, just relax, Cap. No need to rush. It’s not like the life of your long-lost best friend is hanging in the balance or anything.”

“Tony – I swear, in about three seconds I’m going to –“

Bucky.

The thought cut through him like a knife, and suddenly, the words he’d been hearing wove together. Even though he didn’t fully understand, one thing rang clear – and if it was true –

He forced himself to open his eyes again, shift them desperately between Tony and Sam.

“Bucky,” he said urgently – or had he already said it? “You – you know where he is?”

There was no mistaking the meaning behind Tony’s grin. Sam was more subtle – leaning forward, clasping his shoulder.

“Florida,” he said, squeezing it gently before pulling his hand away.

“Florida?” he repeated, his voice more stunned than incredulous. He suddenly felt stupid, putting so much faith in Stark’s technology. Clearly, it wasn’t accurate enough to function properly, which made perfect sense, really, considering the vague logic under which it was supposed to function. Because – “ _Florida?_ ”

“I know,” Sam said, and to his credit, his face remained mostly seriously, only the slightest trace of a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “That was my reaction at first. But Tony insists he got it right.”

“I guess HYDRA likes a good pina colada as much as the next terrorist organization,” the other man said lightly, but Steve didn’t turn to look at him. Instead, he frowned, glancing down at his hands.

Florida. Palm trees and sunshine. And, inexplicably, Bucky.

“There has to be some kind of mistake,” he said, more to himself than to anyone else. It was so close, just a quick plane ride down the coast. He was sure they would’ve taken Bucky to the other side of the Earth, buried him deep in a mountainside somewhere, in a place so desolate and isolated no one would so much as think of traveling there.

Not a place where people _vacationed_.

“See for yourself,” Tony said, a little smugly. He passed off his laptop, and Steve pulled it toward him over the blankets, still feeling dazed.

He wasn’t sure what he expected. A patchwork of diagrams and numbers too complex for him to understand. A three-dimensional blueprint of the base, maybe. Not a web browser.

He scrolled down the page, eyebrows knotting together in confusion.

“This is –“ he started, licking his lips in disbelief. “It’s – it’s a blog.”

He tore his eyes from the screen, fixing them on Tony.

“A photography blog,” the other man clarified, leaning back a little in his chair.

He could feel the beginnings of rage begin to seep into his chest, spreading warm and unrestrained down into his gut, up through his arms.

“If you’re fucking with me –“ he began, teeth grinding together.

He wasn’t sure if it was the language or his tone that startled Tony more, but within seconds the other man had straightened his shoulders, his face narrowing with alarm and quickly fading from smiling to serious.

“I’m not,” he said immediately. He reached for the laptop, pulled it toward him, made a few quick clicks on the keypad. “It sounds ridiculous, I know, but JARVIS conducted an image search for the exact dimensions of what you saw and this is what he hit on.”

Steve pursed his lips, willing his breathing to slow. Trying to hear him out.

“The guy who runs this blog,” Tony continued, his voice only just slightly shaken. “He’s an urban explorer.”

“And what the hell is that?” Steve asked, barking out the words. He couldn’t help it – just the idea, the mere suggestion, that finding Bucky might be little more than a game to him, some kind of joke –

“They’re more like urban trespassers,” the other man said, frowning as he glanced back down at the laptop. He scrolled through the screen, as if he were looking for something in particular. “They explore abandoned places. The creepier the better, usually. Factories, hospitals. Hell, old amusement parks. And they photograph them. Nothing says art like shit decaying in isolation, apparently.”

“You’re trying to tell me that someone broke into a HYDRA base,” Steve said, after a tense moment of silence that he hoped communicated how utterly unimpressed he was. “And then went home and _blogged about it?_ ”

He watched icily as Tony paused, staring at something on the screen for a moment. Then he hesitated, frowning before passing the laptop back to him.

“It wasn’t always a HYDRA base,” he said, as Steve reluctantly took it back again. “Here. This was one of the strongest hits.”

He glanced down at the screen, at the photo framed in the center of it.

He swallowed, his blood instantly cooling.

That was it. The lighting a little different, maybe. The sun had been brighter, when Bucky had shown him. But the same – the same decrepit building, the same doors, the same pile of rocks and cement chunks and debris pushed up against it, a crude but effective means of keeping people out. At least, those without the proper motivation.

All there. Still, stripped of emotion. Frozen in perfect detail.

He reached out, running the tip of his finger down the warm glass of the screen.

He had an apology to make, later.

He knew Tony could read his reaction, could see it in the way his shoulders relaxed, his face going blank the way he’d come to recognize it did when the other man was finally ready to get down to business.

“Does it have a basement?” he asked. Part of him was yearning to scroll through the other photos, to pour over every detail, but another part of him was calm. He knew that it didn’t matter; that this had to be right. “He said – Bucky. He mentioned going underground.”

He glanced up expectantly at Tony, frowning as he watched him take in a deep breath.

“Okay,” he said, slapping his hands on his knees. “Some of this might go over your head a little bit, being that you, you know, slept through the space age –“

“I just want the answer to my question,” he snapped, annoyance seeping back in just slightly. Now that he knew, another part of his mind was waking up, whispering to him – why was he still asking questions? Why was he still in a bed? Why wasn’t he boarding a plane at that exact goddamn moment –

“Relax, it’s relevant,” Tony quipped back. “So this place – it was a manufacturing plant for solid fuel rocket chambers.”

Steve licked his lips at that, frowning.

“Rockets?” he repeated, eyes widening slightly as Tony nodded. It still didn’t seem all that important, to know whatever the place had been before HYDRA managed to infiltrate it and take over, but – he couldn’t quite let the mention of rocket-building slide. “Why would a facility that manufactured _rockets_ be abandoned?”

“Well,” Tony said, his eyes drifting as he looked away from him for a second. “It’s not all that hard to understand, really. Initially there was a debate over whether to use solid or liquid fuel for rocket propulsion. Solid was great for the thrust needed for the initial launch, but once the rocket was free of Earth’s atmosphere –“

“Relevance,” Steve hissed tensely, and Tony’s eyes jarred back to him. His shoulders slumped a little.

“The point being,” he said, his voice edged with annoyance, “They ended up going with liquid fuel for Apollo’s Saturn V rockets. Put the place out of business.”

“Okay,” Steve said slowly. He took in a steadying breath, knowing he had to be patient with Tony. He was brilliant, and he’d gotten him this far, and once he had Bucky he would definitely be putting together an elaborate speech of gratitude but right now – “That’s fascinating, but – is there a _basement_?”

Tony tugged back the laptop, skimming through the photos until he settled on the one he wanted. Then he slide it back toward him.

He was looking at a massive white cylinder, the photo apparently taken from above. The letters N – A – S – A were clearly written down the side of it in massive red block letters. It appeared to be inside a circular room, not much bigger than the cylinder itself, the white metal panels lining the curved wall peeling away with the beginnings of rust. A few precarious ledges of metal scaffolding circled around it, some of the railings bent and falling away. They were the beginnings of a spiral staircase, its steel grating fading down into darkness.

“What am I looking at?” he asked. The circular room was huge, and seen from above, it was almost like – a hole.

“They didn’t just build the rocket chambers there,” Tony said, the excitement of what he was about to say sneaking into his expression. “They also test fired them. In an underground silo.”

Steve took in a deep breath, staring into the picture. Into the darkness framing the edges of it.

“So that’s –“ he began, swallowing.

“A rocket engine,” Tony finished triumphantly. “Well, part of a rocket engine. They just left it there when they closed up shop. It’s still sitting there. Crazy, huh? Millions of dollars of development, rotting away in a hole, in Florida, for forty something years –“

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, kicking away the blankets. Sam was there almost instantly, hands threatening to close over his shoulders. He’d almost forgotten about Sam. And Nat, hovering silent in the doorway.

“Woah, woah!” he said, blocking him. “Where are you going?”

“Florida,” Steve said breathlessly. His vision swam for a moment, and he blinked until the dizziness faded. Then he turned back to Tony, jaw hardening.

“We have a plane?” he asked. Well, half-asked, half-demanded. He tried to ignore his natural reaction of annoyance as Tony grinned, opening his arms.

“First class all the way,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Yeah, I know, you’re welcome. But leave the champagne until the trip back home, huh?”

Coming home. It felt like an impossible concept – coming home again, with nothing to wait for after. Embracing an end. Having Bucky, living, breathing, in his arms.

He nodded to him, hoping it was enough of a thank you, and then turned back again. Natasha had straightened up, and he hadn’t realized, when he had looked at her just as he was waking up, what it meant that she was zipped into her suit.

He frowned, his jaw clenching as words flooded his mouth. He clamped down on them, holding his tongue in a vice.

“I thought,” he said, looking briefly away from her, because he could hardly bear to meet her eyes. They stared back at him – level, intense, certain – in a way he couldn’t match. “I didn’t think you were in this anymore.”

She seemed to consider his words, stepping a little closer. She kept her voice low, even though Sam, too, was waiting near them.

“I never asked why you needed to do this,” she said. For a moment, he thought she might close the distance between them – put her hand on his chest, his shoulder, something. But then he realized that her eyes were more than enough. “It goes both ways.”

He parted his lips, wanting to say something. Feeling that he should – that he had to give something back.

But then he pursed them again, and nodded.

When he turned to Sam, intending to ask, it was the same. His eyes silenced him, too, resolute and unwavering as he offered him his shield.

He took it, curling his fingers into the grip. He imagined it felt like a shadow of what it would feel, in just a few hours, when he put his hand on Bucky. Like reuniting with a part of him. Like embracing his fate.

“Thank you,” he said, nodding to Sam as well.

He turned toward the door.


	24. Chapter 24

He tried not to think as they boarded the small jet. His eyes skimmed over the details – the Stark Industries logo, bold on the curved, shining surface of the plane’s side. The inappropriately low cut uniform of the flight attendant, who smiled widely at him, then wider still when he failed to display an emotion. The brightness of the sun, washing out the corners of his vision as he settled in next to a window.

He saw these things, but tried not to think. Forcing his mind to remain blank felt like his only barrier against sheer panic, the instinct to fight every spare second that flew by. It was the only way he knew to bear the time necessary to get to him.

“Mimosa?” the same flight attendant asked, her blonde hair bobbing into view. He felt the muscles in his jaw clench, saw her smile quickly fade.

“All right then,” she winced, and he found himself glancing away from the swelling rise of her cleavage. He wondered, vaguely, if this was the result of some kind of compromise with Pepper. Left to his own devices, Tony probably would’ve had the poor girl wearing a metallic red bikini.

“Why do we have a flight attendant?” he hissed in Nat’s general direction, the tension in his mind bubbling over into annoyance.

“We’re keeping a low profile,” she said, settling into the supple white leather of her seat and not quite meeting his eyes. The tone of her voice said everything she didn’t – you know why. Relax. Calm yourself down.

He resisted the urge to ask when they planned to take off (surely they could get there faster if one of them flew rather than a civilian pilot, had they considered that?) and tried to bleed the tension out of his own body, curling and uncurling his hands over the armrests. It wasn’t working.

“We’ll transfer to a helicopter once we land in Florida,” Nat said at his side, reading his restlessness. “It won’t be long, then.”

Only when he finally felt the roar of the engine coming to life, the steady vibration coming up through the floor and into his feet, did he finally feel some of his edginess subside. He let his head fall back on the leather, forcing himself to breathe, still trying not to think.

It was a struggle. Between empty seconds thoughts clawed to the surface – what if they were wrong about the location? What if they had moved him? His eyes drifted, from Natasha’s composed form to Sam, eyes intent on the clouds outside his own window. It could go wrong. They could all die. All of them, and Bucky.

He swallowed. His throat was dry but he didn’t have the nerve to summon the flight attendant after giving her a look meant to kill. That and it seemed ridiculous, to be thirsty, hungry, tired, anything, when Bucky was out there. No want seemed worthy, capable, even, of rivaling his need to –

He swallowed again, trying to summon enough spit in his mouth to battle the thirst. He needed to stop, stop thinking. He turned his eyes to the clouds, stared at them, trying to find beauty in the way they morphed in and out of formless shapes.

There was something else, beyond the question of if – if they found him, if they died. He let the idea flood his mind for a moment, like a glass of water tipping, contents seeping over and into everything. The question of what would come after.

It felt like a secret. It was something so precious to him he had never discussed it with Natasha, even Sam, as if putting words to it and setting it free in the world would make it all the more impossible. What would he do when he had him again?

He lifted his hand, traced his fingertips lightly over the cool glass of the window. It felt strangely absurd, imagining it. Would he take him back to his apartment? Would he want that, allow that? Nothing seemed good enough about that place, when he imagined opening the door and ushering Bucky inside. All the books he hadn’t read, all the records he hadn’t played. Everything so anonymous, even if it was mountains above what they’d called a home when they were young.

He tried to imagine him, sitting on his sofa. Alive, a warm body in his living room, with eyes that could meet his own. He closed his eyes then, faintly remembering the beach, the last time he’d seen him. He hated that it felt so much like a dream, the memory hazy, too bright around the edges. Kissing him – would he let him kiss him like that again? Would it feel the same, in a mundane living room, with all the time in the world? Or would he reconsider, in the light of day?

All the time in the world. God, that was something.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

He turned his head, jerked his hand away from the window. Nat was watching him, her eyes pensive.

He gave her a tight half-smile, wondering how honest he wanted to be.

“I’m just realizing,” he said stiffly, swallowing as he averted his eyes back to the window. “I hadn’t considered what it would be like, if I actually – found him again.”

He glanced back, watching from the corner of his eye as she returned his smile with one just as restrained.

“Only you would be worried about that,” she said, shaking her head slightly.

“It’s just,” he started again, running a hand back through his hair. “I don’t have anything to offer him.”

He had never realized, fully, how empty his life was until he considered sharing it with Bucky.

When he’d woken from the ice – there had only been one clear direction, and he’d run with it. Now that S.H.I.E.L.D. had fallen, he didn’t even have that. He had a pre-furnished apartment in D.C. and a list of what he’d missed in the past half-century. That was it.

Natasha seemed to be considering his words. She leaned her head back against the leather seat, frowning.

“I think,” she said, pursing her full lips. She wasn’t looking at him, either, and he was suddenly aware that they were mirroring each other, that they were, at least for this moment, the same. “No one really believes they’re going to be happy. You try to go after what you want, and sometimes, you actually find it. And then one day you just – are.”

He jumped, feeling something slide over his hand. He looked down, startled, and watched as she grasped it tightly with her pale, deceptively delicate fingers.

The sight of it, the brief warmth of the contact, made his throat tighten. 

“Or so I imagine,” she finished softly.

“Would it mean anything,” he asked, part of him wanting to turn his hand in her grip, to clasp hers back, another knowing that any movement would break the spell and make her pull away, “If I said I wanted the same for you?”

He watched the profile of her face carefully, as she blinked out at the blank space in front of her eyes. He saw her chest fall, and then she turned slightly toward him, her wry smile, still not quite there, returning.

She pulled her hand away, but not before giving his a final squeeze.

“No need,” she said.

And then it was over, the moment ended, pulled away as quickly as the warmth of her touch. Not meant to last.

He turned, restlessly gazing out the window again, the clouds drifting around the jet as they soundlessly cut through them.

He hoped it wouldn’t always be that way. That there was something larger, something permanent, meant for him in this life.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

He went blank before missions. It was a relief, to be able to set himself aside, sign himself away to something larger than himself. The safety of countless lives – so many it became impossible to selfishly cling to his own. 

He went blank when he drew. As if cutting off his mind for a while would let the truth bleed out through his hands, etch itself on the paper, the perfect line, the perfect curve, indisputably right, with no explanation possible as to why.

He wanted to go blank now. He tried, he was trying, as he leaned out the open door of the helicopter, casting his eyes restlessly over the landscape below. It wasn’t really necessary – they had exact coordinates – and they wouldn’t miss a smattering of buildings out here in the middle of nothing.

But still, his mind itched for the first glimpse, his hand clutching the doorframe until it went white at the knuckles. He wanted to go blank, to fall into this mission, make his movements feel controlled and automatic, because surely it had to make him vulnerable –

All the memories, seeping in at the corners of his mind, the second he allowed himself to lose focus. Bucky’s face as he fell, the slow fading of his scream. The echo of his promises, as if their repetition in his mind could make them easier to keep. Their kiss – the frantic way he’d tried to savor it, but there hadn’t been enough time –

He swallowed, forcing himself to look up at Natasha, seated across from him. A distraction.

She met his eyes, hers even and calm. He felt his breathing slow almost instantly.

“ETA five minutes,” came Sam’s voice, only slightly gnarled through his earpiece.

He looked out again over the ground below, the hot wind whipping through his hair. Five minutes. Five minutes that he knew would feel like another eternity.

He stared – eyes darting from one tiny, meaningless landmark to the next, a shrub, a tree, a signpost on the cracked road they had begun to follow – until, finally, a low building crested the horizon, dark brown and anonymous.

He felt the dull swoop in his stomach as the helicopter began to descend. Across from him – though she was facing the wrong direction, couldn’t possibly have seen anything come into view – Natasha began slowly loosening her belts in preparation.

His heartbeat picked up as the helicopter lowered, faster and faster, until it was a steady throb in his jugular. He never felt like this on a mission, never – it was always the opposite. Like smoking clearing in his mind.

They touched down. He caught sight of Sam turning, watching him, his lips frozen in a hard line, but there was no time to say anything. He nodded instead, hoping it was enough. Natasha was already free of her straps, sliding effortlessly through the open door the second the helicopter was steady on the ground.

He reached out, grabbed her shoulder, stopped her.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said, knowing the words were useless. But they also absolved him, in a way – made it clear that he held her to no obligation, even though she clearly believed one existed.

“Don’t,” she said firmly. Even with the drone of the helicopter around them, her voice was exceptionally clear. “You aren’t going in alone. Be glad there would’ve been no advantage to a bigger team.”

“You remember what happened the last time we infiltrated a semi-abandoned HYDRA base?” he asked, though that too, of course, was pointless. He tightened his grip on his shield, remembering it himself – the heat of the blast, searing into his forearm as he held it above them.

“The missile?” she asked, pulling her shoulder out of his grip. He let her go with only slight reluctance. “I do. Which is why we get in and out as fast as possible. No wasting time on questions.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. He watched for a fraction of a second as she surged forward, the grip of her feet less than ideal in the sandy soil. And then he was following her, knowing she was right.

There were several buildings of different sizes, all equally dilapidated. She seemed to instinctively follow his thoughts, heading for the largest one without waiting for his confirmation. Its metal walls, even caked now with rust, looked like they had never intended to provide real shelter. It looked temporary, the outer shell to something else. That, and its beams looked like they had once been capable of supporting a retractable roof.

They ran up on a set of double doors, Natasha wordlessly sidestepping as he surged forward, running up the pile of dirt and rubble meant to block it. He jumped, both feet slamming simultaneously against the metal, then fell into the low slide of debris that poured through the open space when the door caved in.

A moment later, and Natasha was there again – hesitating, leaning down as if to help him up, but he was on his feet again before she had a chance. He looked around, finding his bearings.

It was a huge room, empty – something like a warehouse. A small movement caught his eye - a massive fan had been built into the wall on one side, and it turned slowly in the low wind, its rusted blades red brown. The floor was cement, blades of grass growing up through the cracks.

But only near the corners of the room. The floor in the center was a slightly different color – and, staring at it, he saw the outline of a huge circle.

“There,” he breathed, and he was running toward it before he even thought to give Natasha any direction, falling to his knees at the outline. It was there, a small gap – outside the circle, cement, and inside –

The circle was metal. Thin metal, creased with rust – it covered something.

He forced his gloved hands under the rim, winced at the pressure as he forced it up. A moment passed, and then Natasha was at his side, sliding her hands into the larger gap he’d created, and then they were pushing, the metal scraping against cement as it slowly inched back.

He heaved, feeling the muscles in his forearms straining like wires about to snap – then threw it forward as far as he could, the metal slamming down in a massive crash. He hadn’t managed much, only a few feet –

But it was enough.

He stared down into the blackness of a massive hole, his mind jolted by recognition. He had seen this place, this image, before. From this angle.

An immense white cylinder took up most of the space inside. Looking into the dark, he could just make out the beginnings of a block letter ‘N’. Scaffolding, worn and rusted and flaking white paint, hung around it, creating a precarious sort of spiral staircase.

He turned, about to address Natasha, but she had already crossed the length of the room and was rigging a rope to the disused fan. By the time he spotted her, she was already tugging to test its strength, the rope double looped through the blades and around the fan’s hub.

“Should hold,” she said as he approached her, giving the rope one final yank. The metal of the wall groaned, but didn’t appear to buckle. He kept at her side as she walked the rope briskly back to the opening. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t trust that decrepit excuse of a staircase.”

“Agreed,” he said, taking hold of the rope and nearing the edge. He threw the loose end into the void. “I’ll go in first.”

She nodded, and he hung back off the edge, the balls of his feet cutting into the ledge as he found the balance between his body weight and the rope’s tension. Then, carefully – but also as quickly as he dared – he descended, letting the rope skim through his grip as he scaled the wall.

He tried not to think about what they might find at the bottom. He was hopeful for a number of things – that the base would only be manned by a few agents, for example. A small number that would be easy enough for the two of them to take out. Hopeful that it wouldn’t take long to find Bucky – that he wasn’t locked behind a maze of doors, hidden somewhere, that time would run out before they managed to reach him.

He swallowed, repelling down a little faster. He could hear Nat’s boots brush delicately along the wall above him – she was better at this, he knew, far more elegant, and she was easily keeping pace with him.

Finally, seeped in darkness, his feet touched on solid ground. He dropped the rope, listening for the confirmation of Natasha’s footsteps behind him as he pulled out a flashlight. He swung it around, following the curve of the rocket engine. He hadn’t walked halfway around it before something crossed into his beam of light.

A door. A heavy, solid, metal door.

He looked over his shoulder briefly, signaling Natasha forward. Approaching it, he raised his shield, taking in a quick breath as he slammed the edge of it against the handle.

It sliced off easily, the spray of orange sparks briefly lighting up the dark space. He walked inside, raising his flashlight once again.

The first room looked like an office space, crammed with metal desks and computers – some new, some pointedly out of date. He was seized briefly with want – whatever was in those files had to be valuable, were bound to have some key information related to plans they didn’t even know HYDRA was bringing to life – but there was no time for that.

He passed into a hallway lined with closed doors, trying to get a feel for the place. One thing was clear – his fears had been unfounded. There was no one here, no agents lying in wait, unless they truly were biding their time to attack. It was quiet, disturbingly so. Like a tomb.

A fresh surge of fear overtook him. What if they had moved him? They couldn’t have known that he was closing in on their location – that was impossible – but maybe they didn’t keep him in one place. Maybe they’d moved him the night before, for all he knew. Maybe he’d have to go back, ask again. Start again –

He let the beam of his flashlight drift through an open door. The room inside was large, open, like a gathering place of sorts. He shifted his beam over the area again, slower this time – panning it over a black leather chair, leaning back. Restraints dangling from its armrests.

“Nat!” he hissed, but she was already at his side, keeping pace with him as he rushed inside. He scanned his beam up and around the chair, along the back wall, to the side –

And then he saw it. What he was looking for.

A metal chamber, shaped like a crude, upright casket. A small, frosted window fixed where a face should be.

He was at the window before he knew his feet had taken him there, hands clutching at the sides of the iron tank as if he intended to rip it from the wall. He looked inside, heart thrashing violently in his chest – and behind the frosted glass, just barely visible, was the blue-grey outline of his lips.

“Get him out!” he said, barking the order. His voice was high, panicked – not what it should be, not calm and controlled, the way he should be, when Bucky was counting on him – but Natasha reacted no differently. As he threw his gaze over his shoulder, he saw that she was already leaning over a nearby computer, punching at the keyboard. It was a hulking box, the screen a dark green-gray – even he could tell it was ancient.

“Wait,” she said immediately, her voice low, composed. “The commands are in Russian. Let me –“

He didn’t hear the rest of what she said, turning back instead to the window. Even though he knew what was inside, who was inside, he looked again, fixated. Bucky’s face, even obscured – it was hard to process that it was him. That this was it, that he’d made it here. That despite the unnatural paleness of his flesh, he was alive.

“How long?” he asked, not taking his eyes from the window. He swallowed, waiting, then – when she didn’t answer – slowly turned back to her.

She took in a breath as she looked at him, steeling her eyes.

His heart froze in his chest.

It was not good news.

“I can initiate the command to release him from cryo,” she said, her voice still calm, but more stiff now. As if she had to struggle, a little, to keep it even. “But it requires fifteen hours.”

“Fifteen hours?” he repeated. He licked his lips, fighting for a moment to think, but he couldn’t. His mind was blank. He could only grasp at the number and its implications.

“I can override it, I can release him immediately, but –“

The cold moved from his chest down to his stomach, turning it – up into his throat, making it hard to breathe.

He hadn’t considered it. That they may not be able to release him, instantly, from cryostasis. That it might be a slower process, one designed to take his body in and out carefully, without –

Without killing him.

“There could be a missile heading here right now,” he said numbly, voicing the obvious, what she already knew. But he was helpless. Repeating back the truth was all he could do. “We have minutes – if we stay, we could all –“

“It’s your choice,” Natasha said, straightening up from the computer screen to stand firmly in front of him. “This place is deserted, there may not be –“

Maybe this place meant little to HYDRA. Maybe there was no missile, no security in place. Maybe they had simply never expected it to be found.

But maybe there was. Maybe they had. 

And now it was up to him. One way or another, he was forced to gamble with Bucky’s life. He had a choice - rip him from cryostasis, or wait it out and let a missile potentially kill them all.

At least when Bucky had fallen, he hadn’t given the order. Not directly.

“Decide, Steve,” Natasha pressed, lingering over the keyboard.

He glanced back, at the ghost of his face, frozen in the window. So close, after everything. He’d gotten this far.

He allowed himself one moment of weakness. Just one – just a brief half second to close his eyes, to breathe out, as he made the decision and simultaneously made peace with it.

“Override it,” he said.


	25. Chapter 25

Natasha held his gaze for a moment before she nodded, lowering her eyes back to the screen. He watched as her hands danced deftly over the keyboard before suddenly going still. She looked up again, her face was expressionless.

He followed her sightline to the iron tank, barely restraining himself as the room filled with the sound of a loud hiss. The seams were releasing, cold steam seeping out from beneath the door as it loosened. With a heavy groan, it began to inch open –

Steve rushed forward, positioning himself in front of it just moments before Bucky’s body tumbled out, falling forward into his arms. His head fell onto his shoulder, and he stiffened, wrapping his arms behind his back and bracing himself against the dead weight.

For a moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe; too stunned that it was him, here, in his arms. He turned his head, slowly, into the tangle of dark hair. His lips brushed against it; it was stiff, and he raised his hand without realizing what he was doing, threading his fingers through it, bracing Bucky’s head. The strands snapped like thin branches in winter.

Ice, he was covered in ice, the smooth skin on the back of his neck frosted over in white. It made his own blood run cold, as his fingernails scraped through it.

He didn’t smell like Bucky. He didn’t even smell human, the warm musk of his skin stripped away and covered over with chloroform, turpentine, bleach. His body was cold, stiff, his knees barely buckled; a statue in his arms.

He waited, fear rushing into him. He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t breathing.

“Steve,” Natasha said, from across the room.

He looked up, his cheek brushing against his frozen hair. It crackled slightly against his ear. How long had he lost himself? How long had she been watching?

“He isn’t breathing,” he said. He tightened his hold on Bucky’s body, arms crossing over the small of his back; beneath his suit, he could feel his own chest starting to shake.

“We have to go,” she said. She was crossing the room, passing him, moving for the door.

“He isn’t –“ he began again, swallowing.

“We have to go,” she repeated, turning back to him, face impassive. “Now.”

In the space of a heartbeat he knew she was right, even though he couldn’t think it through, half of his mind gripped with horror, with the knowledge that Bucky felt like he was –

But he wasn’t, he wasn’t, he only felt lifeless, only felt like a –

And the other half consumed with his physical presence, the weight of his body in his arms, the metal arm pressing into his bicep so cold his skin was numbing even beneath the suit, and he wanted so desperately to lay him down, to look at his face, to know it really was –

His body followed Natasha. He hoisted Bucky up, his waist bent over his shoulder, his arms grasped around his thighs, and he followed her back through the maze of rooms, seeing nothing, until they were back in the darkness of the silo again, the rope dangling in front of his eyes like a slowly shifting apparition.

“Go first,” she said. Commanding him, he realized – he had surrendered the moment Bucky’s body had crumpled into his arms. “In case you lose your grip.”

On Bucky, his mind supplied; so she could catch him if he lost his hold on him, on his body; but he wouldn’t, not again, not ever again. 

He was climbing before he knew he’d gripped the rope, inching up, grunting, because Bucky’s weight was crushing his shoulder, his arm reaching around him at an awkward angle, so that he had to use his feet to brace both of them on the rope, to thrust upward, to make it.

Natasha was soundless beneath him, so much so that when he finally reached the top, pushing Bucky’s body over the lip of the edge with his left arm - first his chest, then his hips, his legs, rolling him onto his back before he pulled his own body up and out – he’d almost forgotten she was behind him.

He collapsed on his hands and knees at the top, exhausted, trying to catch his breath. But that was hard, that was almost impossible, because Bucky was lying there next to him, face up. It was him, even with his face half-obscured by matted hair; his lips parted, eyes closed, the way Steve had seen him a thousand times as he slept.

Only it wasn’t like that; seconds passed and his chest didn’t rise, didn’t fall. His eyelids didn’t flutter, he didn’t murmur in his sleep, roll closer to him, didn’t sigh.

The ice crusting his hair was melting, smearing his face with wet tears. He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t –

“Steve,” Natasha said again, urgently. She had climbed out, was behind him, but he couldn’t make himself turn away to look. “We have to go.”

He didn’t think, couldn’t think, because if he did he would never stop. He hoisted Bucky up again, lifted him over his shoulder, and then they were running over the cracked cement, baking hot in the sun – and then over the sandy ground, giving slightly with every step, until the helicopter was coming into view.

He felt relief flood him as he saw it. The end point, the finish line. If he got them there, he could get help. He could bring Bucky back to –

It was hard to see as they approached the open side of the helicopter, the dirt kicked up by the beating blades. He narrowed his eyes against the cloud of sand, not stopping for a second until he reached it. Natasha had climbed in first and she was reaching out, pulling Bucky in by the shoulders, his head lolling back. And then he was climbing in behind him.

He slumped onto the metal floor, heaving, panting, ignoring the way his stomach lurched as they went airborne. He glanced up, seeing Nat looking calmly back at him, her hair whipping behind her face in a brilliant wave – and then his eyes searched for Bucky.

They’d laid him out on the floor of the helicopter, and in a moment he was kneeling next to him, looking down at his face. His breath hitched; there was blood, streaming down from his nose, smeared over his chin and cheek; it had trickled down into his neck, obscured by his dark stubble.

His mind was blank, white, as he watched Nat reach out, pressing two slender fingers into the side of his throat. Wind rushed through his ears, heart beating in his throat, heavier than the beat of the helicopter blades above him.

She nodded, pulling her hand back.

“It’s weak,” she said.

There were explosions in the distance; a blast so powerful the helicopter swayed in flight, making Steve brace his hand against the floor, Nat grab at the closest rail. But he couldn’t look away from Bucky’s face.

It was him. Even with Nat there, across from them, inches away, he couldn’t help it; he reached out, tracing his fingers along his jaw, swallowing as they ran through the sticky, half-dried blood. His lips, his mouth – beneath the closed lids, his eyes.

He wanted to collapse against him, to rest his head on his bare chest and feel every shallow breath, every beat of his heart; reassure himself that it was there, that it would keep going. His body was aching as the adrenaline died out, pulling him to the floor; he wanted to hide his face in Bucky’s matted hair, and give in to tears.

But Nat was there, watching him. He could feel it, knew that if he looked up, he would meet her steady gaze, firm, unemotional, as he should’ve been in that room.

He didn’t know if he could’ve saved him, if she hadn’t taken control. If he had been alone. He might’ve panicked, frozen in fear and indecision, until the missile took out both of them.

“ETA five minutes,” she said, breaking into his thoughts. At some point, she had put on a headset. He could barely hear her.

A hospital. He let his hand rest on Bucky’s chest, instead; a compromise. With the hum of the blades above, the wind whipping around them, the vibrations coming up through every surface – he couldn’t feel the rhythm of his breathing.

But it was there, he told himself.

He closed his eyes, remembering, imagining, the way Bucky looked when he was awake.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

Arrangements had been made, Steve would later realize. Arrangements he hadn’t thought to make himself.

He didn’t know the details, didn’t care to ask, even if the gratitude throbbed so deeply in him he didn’t know how he would ever begin to express it.

It went back to Tony, he knew that much; possible even further than that. At the very least, it was Tony’s money that had paid off the doctors, the nurses, the personnel needed to look the other way when a man with a very distinct metal arm was hoisted onto a gurney in front of them. Maybe Fury’s connections had found them in the first place – Steve didn’t know.

He didn’t think about all of that, not until later, until long after they’d wheeled Bucky away and he was pacing, restless, in front of Sam, desperate with anxiety and no longer making any effort to hide it. He was angry, too, irrationally angry that they’d made him wait, separated them, even though he knew this was how things worked.

“Let them,” Nat had said, a calm but firm hand on his shoulder when they told him and he’d looked up, all but baring his teeth. It had taken several long seconds before his hand had broken contact with Bucky’s body.

Then he’d paced, biting his lower lip until it was raw, ignoring Sam’s gentle offer of a cheap vending machine coffee in a too-thin styrofoam cup.

Anyone else would’ve tried to comfort him – reassured him, in an empty, sing-song kind of voice, that Bucky would be okay.

Instead, Nat and Sam – and the gratitude he felt, that extended to them too, overwhelmingly so, so much that he couldn’t even consider how much he owed them, how he would never, could never, pay them back for this – were mostly silent. Nat bought a candy bar from the vending machine and watched him as she ate, carefully, ready to step in if he started to unravel.

But he didn’t, incredibly – he panicked and paced and resisted the urge to bury his hands in his hair and scream, resisted too the even greater urge, on the part of his body, to sit down. Every part of it ached, but as long as he was standing, moving, he could fool himself into thinking, on some irrational level, that he was doing something.

Finally, they came. The nurse was like the nurses he remembered from the war. Pretty, and admirable, a face of absolute calm. She didn’t look the least bit frightened of him.

“He’s stable,” she’d said. “You can see him now.”

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

Nat and Sam didn’t follow him. 

He’d stopped at the foot of the bed, even as the door closed softly behind him. He’d thought he would rush to his side, but now – he needed another moment, just to look at him. Just to be sure.

Some of his panic had ebbed the moment the nurse had opened her mouth with good news, and some of it slipped away now, bleeding the tension from his shoulders. It was Bucky; not a corpse, not a double. It was him.

He looked better, now. They’d cleaned away the blood from the nosebleed; his skin was still pale, but warmer, alive with the faintest hints of pink and bronze. His breathing was stronger. Steve could see it, even from this distance; a shallow rise and fall, almost imperceptible beneath the pale blue blanket tucked under his arms.

He let himself drift closer. He felt tentative, afraid; he had a bizarre recollection of feeling this way in a museum, stepping closer to his favorite painting - eager, in awe, but not really feeling he was allowed to get too close.

This time, though – he could touch.

He dragged a chair close, first; sat down, leaned forward.

It was him, he thought, the realization swelling in him, making it hard to breathe, but in the best way. He was alive, he was breathing. He was going to wake up.

A part of him was glad, almost, that Bucky wasn’t yet awake. It gave him a chance to let it all settle in – the idea of watching his eyes open, looking into them, hearing him speak – it was overwhelming. Especially when –

He let his mind drift back to his dreams, to the last time he’d spoken to Bucky, on that grey beach. It felt like years ago, hazy, like his memories before the war. They didn’t feel real, couldn’t have been real, because –

He reached out, took Bucky’s hand. It was slack, but warm, his fingers brushing faintly over the calloused skin of his palm.

Bucky had kissed him on that beach. Said he’d –

He grew bolder then, at that thought. Laced their fingers together, squeezed tight.

It was possible that it wouldn’t be like that. Not that easy, in the light of day, in the tedium of reality, when they weren’t desperate anymore. Maybe Bucky would change his mind, want to go back to the simpler version of what they were. Maybe he’d already kissed him for the last time.

It wasn’t a particular sad thought, he realized. He’d lived with that assumption his whole life – that Bucky would be a friend, a brother. Nothing more. It made sense that it felt like a dream he was about to wake up from.

He looked down at their clasped hands. Had he ever even held his hand, like this? Not playfully, not so he could pull him along somewhere but just – held it?

It didn’t matter, he told himself. He looked at Bucky’s face, stared into it, ran his eyes over his parted lips.

It didn’t matter, if things weren’t different. If he never kissed him again, never held his hand –

Because he was going to wake up. He’d survived, he’d come back, they both had, and that in itself was miracle enough. They’d be together again.

To ask for more was tempting fate.


	26. Chapter 26

It was cold, colder than it should have been, colder than before. It seeped into him, numbing him from the outside in, leaving him paralyzed, stiff. Not that it mattered –

He turned, looking back over his shoulder. The wind whipped against his cheek, dark snarls of hair clouding his vision. He made no attempt to brush them away – he could hardly feel his hands, sunk into the wet sand where he braced himself up – and it didn’t matter, anyway, because he knew what was behind him.

An illusion – there was no roller coaster, just like there was no sound, except for the endless beat of the ocean. He’d walked toward it, hoping there might be something, some kind of gateway, but it only receded away from him, always far away but never out of sight. And when he turned back, the sea.

A wave rushed in, coating his hands, his knees, in icy foam before ebbing back. He looked down; sometimes there was blood in the water, bright flashes of color that lingered in the sand, on his skin, before darkening to brown. He didn’t sleep, but he was tired, aching with exhaustion. The horizon mocked him, waiting patiently for him to crumble, to fall, to be washed away.

Footsteps. There were footsteps behind him. Slow, tentative – like they didn’t want to interrupt. But that was ridiculous, and impossible.

He tried to move his fingers, couldn’t – they were numb, even the metal was numb, wired into a body that was as alive as the wet sand. He couldn’t speak, but if he could –

A hand closed over his shoulder, gentle. Warm fingers, a soft voice, shaking him, rocking him like the waves, but then harder, too hard –

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

“Hey,” a voice said. Apologetic, but firm.

Steve struggled to open his eyes, taking in a haggard breath as he blinked, then sighed, slowly lifting his head. He could feel the indentations from the knit blanket on the skin of his cheek, ran his hand back through his hair automatically, because he was sure it was stuck at odd angles.

“Hey,” he said back, his voice sleep-heavy and slow. He lifted his eyes to Sam, who smiled down at him tightly.

He’d fallen asleep on the bed again, his body slumped over in the chair and his head resting in the empty space near Bucky’s left hand. Other offers had been made – they could bring in a cot, the nurses suggested. They showed him how the armchair could recline, if he wanted – but he didn’t.

This was the only position he’d found he could sleep in. It felt right, as close as he could reasonably get to sleeping on Bucky’s chest, monitoring his breathing, his heart rate. It had been steady for a long time, showed no sign of stopping, but – still. He needed to hear it.

He’d wondered – particularly late at night, when it was dark, and quiet, and he felt alone, even though he knew he wasn’t, they weren’t – if he could simply crawl into the hospital bed next to him. He didn’t think anyone would stop him.

But that crossed a line – a line he’d drawn for himself, he realized, but a line none the less. For all the nights they’d shared a bed in Brooklyn, it felt wrong, now, to curl up next to him when he had no way to consent, no way to say no. He didn’t want to use Bucky’s body to comfort himself, even just to lie next to it; that was selfish. Even if it was all he had.

“You all right?” Sam asked, and he blinked again, stirring himself back to reality. He glanced down at Bucky – still peaceful, still pale and perfectly still – before letting his eyes drift to the window. It was black.

“I dreamt again,” he said, his voice still hazy. He must’ve slept for awhile. It had been afternoon, the last time he’d looked. There was a clock on the wall, but he’d moved toward using the light to tell the time. Dawn, morning, afternoon, twilight. It was a little confusing, on cloudy days, but Florida didn’t seem to get many of those.

“Yeah?” Sam asked. He drifted a little closer, and Steve sat up fully in response, jerking when a blanket slipped from his shoulders. He reached behind his back, pulling it forward so he could fold it neatly.

He hadn’t fallen asleep with a blanket. The nurses were kind here. 

He smoothed out the squared seams, jerking to attention again when he realized Sam was repeating his name.

“You’re still half asleep, huh?” the other man said, pulling out a chair so he could sit next to him. It was meant to be friendly, but Steve could hear the irritation, hovering just beneath the surface.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He continued to smooth the seams, even though he’d gotten them perfectly the first time. A consequence of his time in the military – if nothing else, he knew how to make a bed, fold a uniform. “What did you say?”

“I said, you can’t be sleeping that well without a bed,” Sam repeated, his voice purposefully a little louder than it needed to be. He leaned forward, making sure to catch Steve’s eye. “You oughta take Tony up on his offer. I know a swanky hotel’s not your style, but you gotta have a place to rest.”

A place to rest. Steve’s mind snarled at that idea, twisting the words bitterly. What he really meant was a place to escape.

It was true. He couldn’t rest, around Bucky, not really – he was always at some sort of attention, even in his sleep, even caught up in the surreal nightmares. Waiting for him to die, waiting for him to wake up. Every shuffle of the door opening perked his attention, wondering if it was a doctor, coming to tell him something new, something they’d miraculously overlooked. It was usually just a nurse on her rounds.

Or Sam. Or Nat. Bearing coffee, and wearing increasingly concerned looks on their faces.

“I can’t do that,” Steve said.

He knew he ought to elaborate – ought to say something to try and convince Sam, make him feel better about how he was now essentially living in the hospital, in the chair next to Bucky’s bed – but he didn’t have the energy. Just enough words for the truth.

A silence fell between them, more loaded than Steve wanted to consider. Finally, Sam spoke again.

“They tell you anything?” he asked. A tentative question, because he knew the answer, but he needed to ask it anyway.

Steve looked down, swallowing at the numbness that swept over him every time this question was raised.

At first, there had been a flurry of activity surrounding Bucky. Tests that were proposed, and then executed – brain scans, MRI’s, blood panels. There almost wasn’t time for sleep – they were wheeling him out of the room, then back in, the doctors sitting down next to him where Sam was now, calmly explaining what they’d managed to rule out.

Each update had been a relief. There appeared to be no internal bleeding, no organ damage. No swelling on the brain, no seizures, no need for life support.

But also, no reason why he wasn’t waking up.

He didn’t want to answer Sam. Didn’t want to tell him the truth, anymore than he wanted to face it himself. He wanted there to be more avenues to go down, more possibilities to explore, more they could do, more they could try.

“They said to wait,” he said slowly. He curled his hands into the fabric of his slacks, hating the words.

Not because he couldn’t. He had always been willing to wait for Bucky.

But because he knew what it would mean, to have no timeline, no endgame. No one expected him to leave the hospital, to leave his side, when there had been a sense of urgency, of uncertainty. Now, with time stretching out before them –

Sam was shaking his head slowly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice strained with the weight of his sincerity.

Steve swallowed back the need to answer. It was pointless.

There was nothing he, or Sam – or anyone, frankly – could say.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

At some point, they proposed cutting off Bucky’s hair.

Steve couldn’t blame them, really. It was matted, and filthy, existing as a sharp contrast to the crisp cleanliness of the hospital bed he was laying in.

But Steve wouldn’t let them.

It went back to the same reason he didn’t sleep next to Bucky, didn’t share his bed – he wasn’t awake, so Steve couldn’t be sure what he wanted. And while Bucky had never had long hair, while it probably could only serve to remind him of HYDRA’s neglect and utter indifference to his humanity – Steve couldn’t be certain.

So he volunteered to comb it out.

It took hours, because even though Bucky was unconscious, Steve wasn’t sure if he was able to feel pain. He filled the hours with research on the Internet –

\- Sam had cautioned him strongly against that, said he was bound to overwhelm and confuse himself trying to make any kind of medical diagnosis using the Internet, that he needed to trust the doctors, that they were the best, the absolute best, that Tony had –

\- and had read horror stories of patients in comas who had heard everything around them, felt everything happening to their bodies, without being able to react. So he assumed Bucky could feel every tug, carefully working through each knot until all the grimy strands lay smooth and straight, fanned out on the pillow, framing his lifeless face.

He’d tried not to let his stomach turn when the water in the plastic basin they gave him ran red, swirling quickly into a dingy brown.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

He didn’t kiss him – that went without saying. But he wanted to, particularly when he felt helpless. Or, at least, when he lost himself in his helplessness, because he always felt helpless now, always. 

It was when he felt desperate, when he couldn’t distract himself with dangerous and pointless online research, that he would settle himself at Bucky’s side and stare down at him and want to, want to kiss him, because maybe Bucky was awake, inside, in his head, maybe he could hear him, maybe it would bring him some level of comfort.

But he couldn’t get past the idea that a kiss would bring comfort only to him – and not to Bucky. So he didn’t.

But he whispered things, particularly in the dark, insulating safety of the night, particularly when he jerked awake, shivering in the aftermath of another nightmare. He whispered the things he’d never said, whispered promises that he meant to keep. One way or another.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

One afternoon – it had been weeks, but Steve didn’t count the days anymore – he heard the familiar sound of the handle turning on the door.

Breaking from his thoughts, he let go of Bucky’s hand – squeezing it gently first as a kind of apology, just in case he could feel it – and reached over to the side table next to his bed, picking up a novel. It was old, the pages yellowed and dog-eared, something Sam had brought him –

(“Might as well work on that list of yours, right?”)

\- to pass the time, and generally speaking, everyone seemed to feel more at ease if they saw him doing something when they walked in the door, something other than staring down into Bucky’s face and waiting.

He opened the book to a random page, looking down for a few seconds and raising his eyes again to see –

“Tony,” he said. He blinked, surprise washing over him.

He set the book aside.

Tony paused for a moment, stopping just beyond the threshold as the heavy door swung shut behind him. He looked briefly over at Bucky, eyes grazing the hospital bed before he started walking again, circling the perimeter of the room and making his way toward Steve.

“Morning,” he said, glancing again toward the bed and then toward the window. He was holding something – a ball, maybe, or an apple, in the hands crossed behind his back.

“What are you doing here?” Steve found himself asking. It was direct – a more direct, and more honest, response to Tony Stark than he usually allowed himself – but he was still jarred by his presence.

“Oh, you know, Pepper loves the beach this time of year,” he said, circling the table set up underneath the window before yanking out a chair. “She’s here, by the way. Somewhere. I think she ran into Black Widow in the hallway, had to catch up on the gossip.”

Steve nodded. Part of him wondered, of course, how and why Tony had been herded in to talk to him alone, but another part of him didn’t particularly care. Instead, he just felt curious, and vaguely grateful.

“Brought this for, uhh,” Tony said, pulling his arm forward. He looked over at Bucky in the hospital bed, mouth freezing open for a moment before he jerked back to Steve. “Your buddy. Picked it up at the airport gift shop. Figured he wasn’t a flowers kind of guy.”

Steve reached out, accepting whatever it was that Tony wanted to give him – a clear ball, but flat on one side, slightly heavy in his hand.

He turned it over in his palm, frowning.

It was a snowglobe. A cheap, plastic snowglobe with the word “FLORIDA” plastered in neon pink along the back, framed by cartoon palm trees. He shook it, and the word slipped behind a tiny explosion of glitter and miniature drifting alligators.

He was dumbfounded, for a moment, until he found himself smiling, watching the glitter settle again.

“Thanks,” he said, his gaze lingering on it for a moment before he half-turned, setting it behind him on the side table. “You know, I think he might actually like this.”

Tony nodded, not returning the smile, but looking at least like he might entertain the possibility.

“Pepper brought you some cannoli’s, too,” he said, leaning back stiffly in his chair. “Four and half stars on Yelp.”

“Yeah?” Steve asked. He wasn’t sure if he could eat them, if he would eat them, but the idea nudged something in him, a little surge of warmth that gripped his gut. “That’s thoughtful of her. Getting kinda sick of hospital food.”

“A supersoldier like you shouldn’t be eating Jello,” Tony quipped, frowning at the discarded plastic tray on the table, in particular at its tell-tale rounded-square cup. “You’d think for how damn expensive it is to stay in a hospital, you’d be eating steak every night.”

Something in Steve’s mind clicked at that, and he pursed his lips, sitting up a little straighter. 

“Tony, about that –“ he started, but already Tony was standing, waving a hand in his face.

“I shouldn’t leave Pepper alone for too long,” he said, tugging his t-shirt straight. “Don’t want her and the Widow conspiring against me.”

Steve took in a breath to argue, then let it go, settling back in his chair instead.

“Thanks,” he said, after the moment had passed. He reached back, picking up the snowglobe pointedly and shaking it a little.

“Don’t eat all the cannoli’s yourself,” Tony said, making his way back toward the door. He pointed a finger at him in mock accusation. “Some of them are for Birdman, too.”

“I won’t,” Steve promised. He waited a moment, watching him go before sighing into the silence that followed the heavy click of the door shutting again. 

He turned toward Bucky. Somehow, a strand of hair had managed to drift up over his chin, resting just next to the corner of his mouth – maybe the movement of Tony slinking through the room – and he reached out, smoothing it back down again.

“You might hate him a little, when you meet him for the first time,” he whispered, continuing to smooth his hair down absently, even though it was already back in place. “But we owe him.”

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

He needed to get up. He needed to move.

But it was tempting to stay, even if the cold made his bones feel like icicles, quick to snap and shatter. If he stayed perfectly still, bare chest hunched over his stomach and thighs, it almost felt warm –

But he couldn’t. He had to move, had to leave here, because he was alone. No one, and nothing, was coming for him – all that stretched before him was the sea, rough and restless and waiting, but he couldn’t go there, couldn’t –

Not without Steve. He’d promised him that.

He lifted his hand from the wet hand. At first, he wondered if it was broken, the fingers splayed out stiffly and frozen in position. Was the arm immune to water? It seemed likely – they wouldn’t allow for such a simple fatal flaw – but it had also never been designed to be submerged this long. He didn’t know. No one had explained the arm to him.

He waited, imagining the movement in his mind again, and again, and then – there, a twitch, a groan as the plates separated and slid back together, slower, louder, than they should be, but moving.

But just that movement had exhausted him, and he hung his head again, shuddering. He needed more, needed strength, needed the energy to –

Steve blinked awake, sitting up slowly. He heard the blanket rustle softly as it fell from his shoulders.

It was eerily quiet as he opened his eyes, echoing emptily the way his apartment had before he’d left it for the Tower, then left New York for –

His mind snapped to attention. He looked around the room, seeing only dull shapes in the blackness. The only light was a deep blue, flooding the floor in strips from the shaded window.

But it shouldn’t be dark, shouldn’t be silent. There was always a low light, the machines were always alive, tracking his heartrate, beeping steadily in the background –

He was on his feet before his mind could process the decision to stand, rushing for the bed, irrationally afraid that Bucky was –

But no, he reached out, tugging Bucky’s body forward beneath the sheet, and it was him, he was there. His head rolled back listlessly at the movement, and Steve pressed his hands to his chest, searching for his heart and finding it, slow but strong beneath the scarred muscle. His breathing, too, was level – he couldn’t see the subtle rise and fall of his chest without more light, but he could feel it beneath his palms.

Reluctantly, he let go, eyes blindly searching the room. This shouldn’t be happening. Hospitals had back-up generators, the machines didn’t just die –

He heard it then, a low whirl, a soft mechanical sigh that would’ve been lost in the hum of the monitors, if they’d been running. He turned toward it, eyes tracing the outline of the metal arm, glinting in the light from the window –

The fingers twitched. 

He stared, breathless, waiting. But nothing moved again, and silence fell once more over the room.

As the seconds dragged on, he frowned, swallowing in doubt, even as his heart picked up speed. Could he really say he’d seen that? It was dark, and maybe he just wanted to see it, wanted it so badly that his mind finally made it come to life.

But the sound – he remembered it, remembered when Bucky had pulled his fist back, ready to – but that didn’t mean anything. All it meant was that his mind could supply the proper sound effects.

He started to pace the room. He needed to find someone, a nurse – someone to fix all the monitors, set them up again. He’d fight with himself later over what he’d seen.

He turned to the door, his frown deepening at the soft orange glow that seeped in beneath it. He opened it, peering outside, blinking at the lights in the hallway. A nurse was hovering at the closest station, and he motioned to her, looking around in confusion as she approached him.

“Mr. Rogers,” she said, standing before him. “Is everything all right?”

“Was there a power outage?” he asked, the words slipping from him before he could really consider how direct he should be. But why shouldn’t he be honest? 

“A power outage?” she repeated, frowning. “No, why do you –“

“All the machines stopped,” he said, moving back and gesturing for her to follow him inside the hospital room. “I woke up and it was dark, it was quiet –“

“Well, let’s take a look, shall we?” she said, moving past him.

She smiled up at him as she did, but it was a tight smile, restrained, an unpracticed and inelegant version of the smile Natasha wore so often around him. He felt his stomach sink a little as he turned, walking back into the room himself.

“Oh, dear,” the nurse was saying softly, but he barely heard her, his ears training immediately on the steady beep of the machine monitoring Bucky’s heartbeat. She was kneeling on the floor, muttering something, as his mouth fell open.

“What?” he whispered, when he realized she was staring at him, waiting for a response. 

All the machines were alive again. The overhead light, though dimmed, made that easy enough to see.

“Your little snowglobe,” she said sadly, showing him her hands. She was cupping the shattered remains of the dome carefully. Behind her, he could see the floor shimmering, wet glitter splayed across it, the tiny green alligators mixed with clear plastic shards. “Too bad. It was cute.”

He didn’t answer. His eyes moved from the floor, to the table, to Bucky’s motionless body.

The nurse was still talking.

“Don’t worry,” she said, dropping the shattered dome into the wastebasket. “I’ll send someone in to clean up this mess for you. Just be careful not to slip on it in the meantime, okay?”

Steve nodded absently. That would be a way to die. A supersoldier, America’s hero, taken out by a puddle of glitter.

“You must’ve bumped the table when you woke up,” she continued. She was brushing her hands together, trying to get rid of the glitter.

It was such an easy explanation. Yes – yes, I did. I bumped the table.

He nodded along to his own thoughts.

“Forgive me,” the nurse said, after a hesitant pause. She dropped her hands – the glitter wasn’t budging, it seemed. “But I overheard your – friends – talking in the hallway. They worry you haven’t been sleeping well, they said you’re having – nightmares?”

He blinked, forcibly steering his attention back to her. He clenched his jaw.

He must’ve looked intimidating, because the nurse – Marjorie, it was written on her namebadge – blushed and looked down before raising her eyes again.

“I know this is personal,” she said, sparing a glance toward Bucky. “I don’t mean to interfere, I just – this is what I do, I try to help people. I can’t imagine how horrible this has been for you. They say you were close –“

He began to tune her out again. She was sweet, she really was, this Marjorie, with her pale purple scrubs covered in cartoonish flowers, but he really needed her to go.

“- doctor for you, would you like that? Maybe he could prescribe you something. Something to help you sleep.”

He glanced down at her again.

Pills. Sleeping pills.

It was strange. He didn’t think it through at all – just accepted the idea, like he’d had it all along.

He smiled.

“Sure,” he said, nodding pleasantly.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warning** for suicide/suicidal ideation.

He tilted the bottle in his hand, listening as the little pills rattled inside the plastic. Another tilt of his wrist, another slow slide – like rain slamming against a windowpane, only to cut off into silence.

A ninety day supply, given to him by a pharmacy tech too shy to really look him in the eye, smiling down instead into the counter. Such an innocent transaction, so common, so easy. No suspicion, no connecting the dots. Ninety pills.

He wondered, vaguely, if he should take them all. Maybe he only needed half – maybe a third. He didn’t know. No one seemed to know how quickly the serum could burn through chemicals, turning scorching shots of vodka into cool water in his veins. It made it all the more absurd that they were even willing to give him the pills, knowing that just one would no more help him to sleep than a coffee would help him to wake up in the morning.

But they were desperate to help. He tilted the bottle again, listened to the slide, listened to the voice in his mind that whispered how he’d used them, these innocent people he didn’t know, and who didn’t know him, but would feel so guilty, later.

Ninety pills. He couldn’t see a reason not to take them all.

He screwed off the cap, cracking the plastic in the process, and looked up at Bucky.

He was still sleeping, oblivious to all this. Or was he? Even with Bucky’s closed eyes in front of him, he still couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Maybe Bucky was standing just behind him, now, screaming at him to stop, shaking his shoulders with invisible hands that fell silently through his flesh.

He could almost hear the anger in his voice, low and firm but with a hint of something frantic, a barely suppressed fear. He’d heard it so many times, up close, the anger breathed into his face as Bucky gently held a bloody rag to the gash on his brow, his cheek, his lip.

Steve hoped he could forgive him. He thought he would; they’d never been able to stay angry at each other for long.

He dumped the pills into his hand, or a majority of them – there were too many to fit, even in his broad palm. He swallowed, eyes flicking up again to Bucky’s face, his parted lips – the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Part of him hoped he might wake up just in time. That somehow, Bucky would know – that he would come back to life just before the pills hit his mouth, just in time to knock them out of his hand and send them spilling to the floor.

And then he would throw his arms around him and never wish again that he was –

He tossed the pills back, the handful, swallowing once, twice, three times before they were down. He could wish all he wanted, but it wasn’t going to happen that way. Bucky wasn’t that heartless. He wouldn’t have watched him suffer in silence, all these nights, just to save him at the last second.

He reached for the glass of water on the table, took a long sip, poured more pills into his hand, tried to ignore the roughness in his throat after the first hard swallow. No, Bucky – he had no choice. He wasn’t waking up.

He threw back another handful, trying not to gag on them. He wanted it over with quickly, he wanted –

Another swallow of water, another palm full of pills brought to his mouth. He wanted it over with quickly, he wanted to get to Bucky. He had no choice. He wasn’t waking up.

He reached out for the glass, missed somehow – heard it tip and roll on the table before a brief silence, and then a wet shatter.

He leaned forward, over the bed – it was easy, falling forward – and let his forehead brush against the warmth of Bucky’s forearm. Funny, how warm it was, how alive he felt, like he was just sleeping, only – he wasn’t.

That was what it felt like – like he was falling asleep, only he wasn’t. Only it was too fast, his mind crashing in on itself, too dizzy to think, until, suddenly, he wasn’t anymore.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

It was quiet, at first. Quiet, and black, but not frightening.

Then he heard the sound fade into his consciousness – a heart beating too slowly, the gentle ebb and flow of water breaking against sand.

He opened his eyes.

It was jarring at first, it was the same but – it wasn’t. The sky had darkened, clouds hanging low on the horizon in ominous shades of black and grey and purple, fresh bruises crowding out the sun. And the waves were rough, smacking against the shore like a brutal hand slapping a face, punishing –

His eyes had followed the scene down, and then he saw him. On his hands and knees in the surf, barely holding himself up out of the water.

He ran, bare feet struggling for purchase in the soft sand. Every sprint sent him stumbling forward, legs skidding dangerously to the side – but that didn’t matter, until finally his feet were crashing into the icy water, and then his knees, and his arms were reaching around Bucky to pull him up.

He did, struggling with the weight of him – dead weight, and Steve wondered if he were even conscious, if he were even breathing. He blindly stepped backwards, his chest to Bucky’s back, pulling – his slack ankles dragged beneath him, parting the water, until finally Steve’s feet were walking back into sand that was cool, but dry, and he let himself collapse.

He shifted his grip on Bucky’s body, drawing his arms out from around his chest and wrapping them instead around his shoulders, enveloping him completely. He ignored the way the metal arm, cold as ice, bit into his skin.

He tried to look him in the face, to see if he was there with him, if he was conscious – but as he struggled to look, he felt the other man start to shake, first in little tremors, then deeply, shivering ravaging his chest.

“Buck,” he said, crying the word into the back of his neck. He was helpless – the empty sand stretched around them, cold and barren – they had no shelter, no blankets, no way he could keep Bucky warm.

He did what he could – tightened his arms around his shoulders, brought his thighs up to press against the outside of his legs, held him as the shivering continued. He wanted to say something, anything, to make it better, to comfort him, but he couldn’t find the words. Each time his mind failed him, he simply held on tighter.

In the silence, he listened to the waves, rough and restless against the shore. Gradually, they slowed, calming, the sound of their crashing fading into a smooth rush. He tucked his head in closer to Bucky’s neck, blinking slowly as he realized the waves were beating in time to his heart.

The shivering gradually slowed, and as Steve hesitantly shifted, he felt the warmth trapped between their bodies. He sighed, dropping his head back to Bucky’s shoulder.

He felt, again, that he should say something. But then, he also thought he could stay like this, holding him, silently, forever – that alone might be enough.

“I’m not used to this,” Bucky whispered.

His heart leapt at the sound of his voice, achingly familiar. He pressed his cheek in harder against his throat, breathing him in, the scent of him, the sound of him. If he was gripping him too tightly, hurting him, Bucky didn’t say.

“Used to what?” he asked. He could barely hear his own words, murmured almost directly into Bucky’s skin.  
“This,” Bucky said, and Steve felt his hand reach up, fingers sinking into the meat of his forearm. “You’re huge.”

Steve chuckled at that, another foreign sound – it felt like years since he’d made a noise like that. He wasn’t used to it either – the way Bucky’s weight was settled fully into him, the way their skin touched, the way it was allowed to go on and on endlessly, with none of the brevity of a friendly hug or reassuring clasp on the shoulder. And the possibility of more – he wanted to turn his mouth into Bucky’s neck, press his lips into the curve of his collarbone, but the thought alone was almost overwhelming.

“You’ve had a few months,” Steve answered. He resisted the urge to ask Bucky if he liked him better, this way, too afraid of the answer. It was a question he’d spent every minute of those months avoiding.

“Not enough time,” Bucky said back. His voice was lazy, and slow, and as he said the words he shifted his shoulders so he could settle even further into Steve’s arms, and as he felt that, realized that, Steve’s heart seized again.

“That’s all we have now, is time,” Steve mumbled. Suddenly, whatever anxiety had stopped him before released, and he carefully kissed the side of Bucky’s neck, deliberate and slow.

He felt Bucky’s shoulders stiffen, suddenly, and he pulled back, tensing up himself. 

“But you have to go back,” Bucky said. There was something off about his voice, now – hollow, edgy, making the statement into a question.

Steve drew in a breath, taking a moment before he answered. All he wanted was to sink into Bucky’s body, loose himself in touch, in his presence. But he couldn’t lie to him.

“I don’t know if I can,” he answered. He swallowed, taking in another nervous breath as he waited for a reply.

It didn’t come right away. Instead, Steve felt Bucky gradually lift himself up, straightening his back inch by inch and pulling away from him, enough that he could start to turn around. This meant having to release his hold on him, which he did reluctantly, trying not to cringe at the sudden loss of contact.

He waited, shivering as the cold air touched his warm skin – and then, suddenly, Bucky spun around, pushing him down on his back in the cool sand, metal arm pinning his shoulder.

“What did you do?” the other man asked, voice cold, but strung tight with tension.

Steve parted his lips in a silent gasp. He’d let himself be manhandled willingly, falling back pliantly – but now that he was there, staring up at Bucky looming over him, loose dark hair blocking out the light – he felt the first stirrings of apprehension.

He was frightened – both of how Bucky would react to the truth, and what his body might do to betray him, with Bucky firmly straddling him into the ground.

He took in a shaky breath, reaching up to cup his jaw, twist his hand into the hair at the back of his head – because he couldn’t help that, he yearned to touch him, ached for it, and maybe if Bucky felt that too, he would understand.

“You weren’t coming back,” Steve said, sighing as Bucky showed no reaction, and he dropped his hand in resignation. “I needed you, Buck. I need you, why didn’t you –“

He stared up into Bucky’s face, voice trailing off. For a few long seconds, Bucky stared back down at him, eyes hard, until, in an instant, his face crumbled, and he was suddenly lurching away.

Steve followed him, quickly sitting up and gripping his shoulder. When it was clear that Bucky wasn’t going to move further, wasn’t about to get up and walk away, he edged closer, releasing his shoulder so he could reach down and take his flesh hand instead.

“It’s not your fault,” he started, because he needed, desperately, for Bucky to know why. “But I couldn’t keep looking at you lying there, I couldn’t keep waiting knowing you might never – and they weren’t going to let me stay, Buck, eventually I would’ve had to leave you and I could never –“

“I couldn’t either,” Bucky said, shaking his head roughly. He brought his metal hand to his forehead, digging it back into his hair. “I tried, I tried to go back but – I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it to you.”

“Do what to me?” Steve asked. He leaned closer, squeezed his hand – frowned when Bucky refused to turn his head and look him in the eye. “Do what? Tell me.”

He watched as Bucky took in a slow, shuddering breath, pale eyes staring out hard at nothing.

“We ran out of time, before,” he started, and suddenly the hand holding Steve’s tightened into a vice. “I wanted to tell you – I wanted to explain –“

“It’s all right,” Steve said. He wanted his voice to be soothing, comforting, but he said the words too quickly – they sounded desperate. “Whatever it is, it doesn’t –“

“It does matter,” Bucky said harshly, finally turning to him. The intensity in his eyes, the flare of sudden anger, made Steve immediately fall silent. “Listen to me.”

His face went blank, overcome with a sudden rush of shame. He nodded, maintaining the tight grip on Bucky’s hand. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, lowering his eyes. “I just – I’m sorry. Please, tell me.”

Bucky nodded back, but in the moment that followed, the fierce determination that had seized him seemed to fall away. He lowered his eyes, nervously licking along his lower lip as he gathered himself.

“Before they put me back in cryo, Steve,” he said, swallowing hard after his name. “They wiped me again.”

Steve frowned, the knowledge of what he was saying barely settling over him before every fiber of his being rose up in retaliation.

“All right,” he said slowly, cautiously, because he didn’t want Bucky to lash out at him again. “But they –“

“All of this,” Bucky said, cutting him off to gesture roughly around at the desolate beach that surrounded them, at their own bodies, at their clasped hands, “Everything that’s happened since I pulled you out of the river – gone. Along with everything before.”

Steve took in a staggering breath, held it – struggled to keep his chin held high.

“They wiped your memory before and you still remembered me,” he said. His voice was taking on the same tremor of desperation it had before, but he pushed through, struggling to force confidence into the words. “When you saw me, on the bridge –“

“But I didn’t,” Bucky said, voice soft, breaking slightly. “I didn’t even know your name.”

“You recognized me,” Steve said, stubbornly. He squeezed Bucky’s hand again, as if that could somehow make his argument stronger. “It was enough.”

“It wasn’t,” Bucky said, laughing softly beneath the words, a laugh that he cut off savagely. “I still came after you. Pulled a knife on you. I was ready to kill you.”

“You wouldn’t have,” Steve insisted. “When it came to it, you chose not to.”

“After I shot you three times, yeah,” Bucky said, nearly growling out the words. “If you had been any easier to kill –“

“You missed,” Steve said, and he couldn’t help the affection that crept suddenly into his voice. “It wasn’t an accident. You could’ve take me out with the first shot, you know that.”

“You’re not –“ Bucky said, shoulders stiffening up again, voice wavering as he clenched his jaw. “You’re not listening to me.”

“I’m listening to you, I’m just not agreeing with you,” Steve said. He edged a little closer, letting their shoulders press together. 

Bucky was silent for another long moment, eyes staring firmly out at nothing, before he turned back to him.

“Let’s say you’re right,” he began, his voice carefully neutral. “Let’s say I’m not capable of killing you. That some inherent part of me they can’t bleach away would always stop me. That’s still a far cry from loving someone.”

Steve’s eyes widened at that, his heart roughly skipping a beat before it felt like the whole thing lurched to a stop. He hadn’t been expecting to hear that – that word.

And Bucky – the way he was staring out at him, anguished, even behind his mask of calm – Steve hadn’t expected to see that, ever. That kind of longing, meant for him.

“You –“ he started, his voice breaking off.

“You think I don’t love you?” Bucky questioned, and briefly, his face broke into the kind of smile that Steve remembered, the kind that made him both ache with desire and melt with sheer awe. “God, you’re even more of an idiot than you were before.”

“I’m not –“ Steve started, but he didn’t know how to explain just how impossible it felt, the way Bucky seemed to be keeping up with him, each tentative step he made to push them forward. “Well, maybe.”

“I said I needed you,” Bucky said, leaning toward him. “What’d you think that meant?”

“I,” Steve started, then laughed, because the words were sinking in, and he suddenly felt happy, deliriously happy, despite everything else that still moved in shadows around them. “I didn’t – I just didn’t think I’d ever hear that. From you, at least. For me.”

“See?” Bucky said, a smirk briefly gracing his lips. “I’d say your Ma dropped you on your head too many times, but I can’t. I think very highly of Sarah Rogers.”

“I love you,” Steve said suddenly, as if he’d forgotten, until that moment, that he could say it back. “God, Buck, I’ve loved you since – I don’t even know. I love you. Always. Since always.”

He didn’t have time to stand in awe of the smile he got at that, because in a heartbeat, Bucky had leaned over to kiss him.

It was tentative at first – on Steve’s part, at least, because he still didn’t quite believe he was allowed, because it was like being invited to put his hands on a priceless painting – but when Bucky deepened it, parting his lips and opening against him, he went along eagerly, savoring as much as could while still giving in to the blissful urge not to think.

He kissed him, and kissed him, until he had to break away, panting with the effort of catching his breath.

Bucky pulled away slightly, but hovered close; close enough that their foreheads were almost touching, close enough that it would’ve been painfully easy to close the distance between them and kiss him again.

“Now that,” he said softly, his voice a little breathless itself, “Is just the start of what you deserve. And if I went back, if I looked at you and couldn’t even remember your name, wouldn’t that – wouldn’t that break you?”

He tried not to look away, but it was impossible, with that image filling his mind. Seeing Bucky wake in his hospital bed only to look at him with the same cold, hollow eyes he’d stared into on the bridge, knowing –

“It would break me,” Bucky continued. “If it were the other way around. I couldn’t do that to you. Who could do that, to a person they loved? The one person?”

Steve made himself wait a moment before he answered; let the horror of that image settle, as much as he struggled inside to fight against it.

“I don’t know if it would,” he began slowly. “I’d suffer, I know that much, but I don’t know if it would break me. I know it would be worth it, to have a chance at a life with you.”

“Worth it?” Bucky scoffed, even though the words were strained, not angry. “It would take years to bring it all back, and even then I might never –“

“You don’t get to decide what you’re worth to me,” Steve said firmly. “I do. And it might not matter now, anyway, it might be too late, but I didn’t want it to end here. I’m with you now, and that’s what I wanted, that’s what I chose, but – I wanted more. I would’ve gladly waited years - more years – to have it.”

Bucky stared back at him, frowning. Hesitating.

“What do you mean?” he questioned, raising his eyes slowly. “’A life with me’? It’s not as if – I mean, this is the most we were ever gonna have. It’s not like we could’ve gotten married. Made babies.”

Steve’s mouth fell open, but he couldn’t think, couldn’t form the words.

“Oh, Buck,” he said, his voice warring between sadness and hesitation, because – as much as he needed to correct him, to tell him the truth about the time they found themselves in now – he was afraid to step into the territory it led them toward. “I know you haven’t – but things have changed. Really changed, since the war.”

He watched as Bucky’s eyes widened, but only slightly – his face darkening with confusion.

“They – they changed the law,” Steve began, and he couldn’t help himself – his voice grew excited along with the words. “Two men can be married, now. Or two women. It’s not perfect, there’s still a lot of hate, but legally –“

He hesitated, pausing to gauge Bucky’s reaction. His eyes had widened visibly now, his mouth falling open.

“I was shocked, too,” he continued, unable to stop himself from smiling. “It took a long time for it to sink in, but it’s true, Buck, it really is. And you’re right, you still can’t just make babies but – there are options, couples can adopt, you can get a surrogate, a woman to carry a child for you and your –“

Here Steve let his voice fade away, and he stopped himself, carefully drawing back his smile. Bucky was still staring at him, slack-jawed and silent.

“I don’t know if that’s what you wanted, out of life,” he began instead, keeping his voice soft, tentative. “I mean, I figured eventually you’d wanna settle down. You come from a big family, and – well –“

“You’re saying,” Bucky said suddenly, eyes still shell-shocked, “When you say you wanted a life you meant –“

“I’m sorry, I know this is,” Steve said, jumping in and cutting him off. He felt shy, absurdly shy, carefully choosing every word with the knowledge that, for Bucky, it might all be far, far too much. “A lot to take in, and I know we just – I mean, I can literally count on my hand the number of times that I’ve kissed you – but – yeah. Yes. That’s what I meant.”

He waited, blood roaring in his ears, for Bucky to say something. Instead, he watched as the other man slowly turned away, looking out again over the emptiness of the sea.

“I don’t want to overwhelm you, but I can’t tell you there wasn’t always some part of me that wanted it, even when it wasn’t possible for us,” he continued slowly. “When I thought of my future, it was either with you, or alone. And I’ve made my choice now – one way or another, it’s going to be with you.”

He watched, restless, as Bucky continued to look out, breathing slow and deep. Finally, he turned to him again, and Steve took in a heavy breath at the tears that hung wet and unshed at the corners of his eyes.

“You’d want me as a husband?” he asked. He laughed, a difficult laugh for Steve to read – lodged somewhere between joy and disbelief and heartbreak.

“Someday,” Steve confirmed softly. “If you’d have me.”

“You’d –“ Bucky started, then cut himself off, choking on his own words. “Steve, you still have no idea what I’ve –“

“Don’t,” he said, renewing the tight grip he still had on Bucky’s hand. “I told you before, it won’t change how I know you. It can’t. I won’t let it.”

Bucky turned away again, back to the water. Steve couldn’t see his eyes, but his tears finally fell, he could see the edges of them glisten in the low light – and he could see his jaw clench and release as he fought to hold on to composure.

It wasn’t all that possible to move closer, but Steve did what he could – leaned into his shoulder, shifted so that even their thighs pressed against each other. 

“The way I see it,” Steve started, gently. “We have two options. We stay here as long as we want, and when we’re ready, we go on to whatever’s next, together.”

He looked out across the sea, toward the horizon that was still visible beneath the shifting grey clouds. The view was endless, the waves folding back and back into eternity.

“Or,” he went on slowly, “We try to go back. And if we make it - I’ll be there from the moment you wake up, and I’ll help you remember. And maybe one day we can have more than this. Because as much as I thought this was all I ever wanted, I was wrong. I wanted, I want, everything with you, Buck. Everything.”

“Tell me about that,” he said, his broken voice barely audible above the waves. “About – everything. And then I’ll decide.”

Steve took in a slow breath – and he did.

It was impossible, but he tried. He told him how he wanted to explore the new Brooklyn with him, visit whatever was still standing from their childhood and find new places to replace what had been lost in time. Wanted to walk Brighton Beach with him, proudly holding his hand. Wanted to sketch and paint him in every possible light.

He grew tired, and gradually they leaned more and more on each other, until his head was resting on Bucky’s shoulder and his head was resting on his, and still he kept going, gently rubbing the knuckles of Bucky’s hand with his thumb – how he wanted him to see a London, a Paris, a Berlin not ravaged by war, wanted to wrap his arms around him from behind while he washed the dishes, wanted to spend an entire Sunday in bed with him.

It felt darker as time went on, like the sky was dimming, even though Steve knew that wasn’t possible. They laid down in the sand, hands still intertwined, faces turned toward each other. Steve kept whispering in his ear – a Christmas tree overflowing with presents beneath it. An album stuffed full with photos. Silver rings, champagne toasts. A baby, cradled in his arms, with Bucky’s eyes. 

Finally he was so exhausted that he could barely keep his eyes open – but he tried, couldn’t look away from the glimmer of Bucky’s tears in the dim light.

“I think I’m ready,” Bucky whispered, when Steve’s mind had run dry, and he had curled into him, they had curled into each other. 

“Okay,” Steve said, kissing the inside of his neck, kissing him again, gently, when Bucky turned his mouth to meet him. “Whatever you decided – we’ll be all right. We’re together, now.”

“Together,” Bucky repeated.

It was the last word Steve heard, before the world went black.

**Author's Note:**

> Any feedback is much appreciated.


End file.
